The Proud Man's Contumely
by Slytherkins
Summary: They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. No matter how Harry tries to deal with the responsibilities he bears, things always seem to go wrong. Eventual Snarry with STRONG Harry/Remus themes.
1. The Pale Cast of Thought

**Chapter One: The Pale Cast of Thought**

After eleven years of receiving what was little more than gift-wrapped refuse, Harry Potter never dreamed the day would come when he would begrudge the sight of real presents given out of genuine consideration. And yet as the sun rose on the dawn of his 16th year, bringing with it a small peck of parcel laden fowl, Harry somehow found it difficult to feel grateful. Cheer had been in short supply lately and understandably. The events at the close of his 5th year at Hogwarts still haunted him, having much the same effect as being handcuffed to a dementor. Outrage and disbelief had given way to solemn withdraw shortly after he arrived back at Privet Drive, and he'd spent the last two months lying dejectedly in his room, replaying that last week of school in his mind, growing more and more sullen with each passing day. As far as he was concerned, the fact that this day also happened to mark the anniversary of the day he was born shouldn't change matters in any way.

The owls came almost all at once, and Harry had relieved them in turn and sent them away without an utterance of gratitude. Hedwig, who had been thoughtful enough to go and fetch Ron's gift to him without even being asked to do so, made quite a fuss, ruffling her feathers and clicking her beak loudly at him, to which Harry did not even offer a terse response. Highly indignant, she flew past her open cage and back into the morning sky after the others. Harry watched her go, unable to muster any remorse, then raked the parcels into a pile at the foot of his bed and lay crossways on the mattress beside them.

"Any normal boy," he thought to himself, "would be happy to see a pile of presents. Any normal boy might at least be excited knowing that he was 16, in many ways considered a man now."

So why was it Harry was so bereft of cheer?

"Because I'm not a normal boy," he thought with a smirk that would have made the Potions Master envious. It was a fact that had been repeatedly drilled home to him since he was eleven years old. Only now, what made him different wasn't just that he was a wizard. That no longer seemed like anything unusual to him. Neither was it even that he was 'The Boy Who Lived', vanquisher of the dreaded Dark Lord, a feat he little remembered when he could help it and in which he had played no conscious part. What made Harry truly different was that he was, he knew now, the designated saviour for not only the wizarding world but potentially the muggle one as well. It was a role Harry really had no desire to fulfil. Thinking back on his conversation with Dumbledore only two short months ago, during which this dire prophecy had been revealed, Harry couldn't help but wonder wryly what Christ must have felt when the angel had come down to inform him of his destiny.

"At least," Harry reasoned, "I'm not being asked to martyr myself." Indeed, the fate of the world seemed to hinge on his continued survival. It was for this reason he was presently imprisoned in this nightmare of muggle 'normality'. Despite the fact that his friends' threats had worked a kind of incomprehensible magic on the Dursleys' outward behaviour toward him, Harry found Privet drive to be nigh unbearable. That his relatives were now civil, even at times forcibly pleasant, only made his stay there all the more excruciating. In the last weeks, the world as Harry had known it had been set on its head, and ironically he might have found some measure of comfort in the familiarity of his uncle's threats or Dudley's thick-headed, heavy-fisted bullying.

As Harry lay mulling these thoughts over for the hundredth time, the sun outside had risen high enough to pour through his window, setting ablaze the decorative foil wrapping on one of his neglected presents. Too distracted by its sparkling, Harry finally sat up and toyed with it absently, having no intention of opening it just yet. Looking at it was almost painful, and not because of the glint of the sun in his eyes from the foil. It reminded him all too well of the last present he had received; one he had left unopened until it had been far too late to enjoy. With some effort , Harry stifled the tears that clouded his vision and somehow resisted the urge to riffle through his dresser draw to retrieve, yet again, the small, rectangular mirror stowed there.

No. Harry wasn't in the mood for presents. But he did force himself to study the array of cards spread side by side before him on the blanket. For a moment, all he could discern of them was the absence of the familiar, untidy handwriting that for the past two years he had most looked forward to seeing. Harry heaved a sigh. It would be inexcusably rude to toss them all away unopened. Though, in his present apathetic state, that did not constitute much of a deterrence. However, though he knew they would contain nothing in the way of the straightforward, they just might bear some clue as to when he could expect to be sprung from his prison of trimmed hedges and grotesquely tasteful wallpaper. He heaved another sigh, and reached for the nearest card, finding it filled with close, neat script and utterly inane text.

_Dear Harry,_

_Happy Birthday! It must be wonderful to finally be of age! Just think, you can study apparation now. I can hardly wait until..._

As he read, Harry could practically hear Hermione's voice, saturated with desperate cheer.

_Things are well at the moment, but hectic. I know you must be dying for news, and I'm sorry, but I can't say more here in case this card gets intercepted._

With an irritated grimace Harry wondered why she even still bothered to included that disclaimer. He found it almost impossible to remember the last time he'd received a message that wasn't bare and cryptic. From this he assumed Hermione was at Grimmauld Place with Ron again this summer. But besides the usual Wish You Were Heres and See You Soons, there was little else of interest in the owl and confetti speckled card. He then pulled up Hermione's gift to him and, indifferently, peeled back its dark wrapping to reveal a small box filled with various of Harry's Honeydukes favourites. Untempted, he shoved it to the side and reached for the next card.

It opened with an _'Oi Mate!'_. Ron was not nearly so tight-lipped as Hermione had been, or as falsely cheerful. He complained in much detail about not being able to practice Quidditch while stuck at Grimmauld Place over the summer. He particularly dreaded what Angelina was going to say when she found out.

_And don't try to make me feel better by telling me you've never gotten to practice over the summer and Oliver never kicked _you _off the team. You're a Seeker. And a seeker either knows how to catch a snitch or he doesn't. But I'm a Keeper, and a fairly lousy one at that. I mean, a Keeper has to have strategy, he has to..._

Ron went on about the rigors of his position as though Harry had never seen Quidditch before. It perturbed him slightly that Ron made so little of his responsibilities as Seeker. After all, who decided the outcome of a match anyway? And who ends the bloody thing? Not the bloody Keeper. After Ron's tirade had ended, however, the rest of the letter wasn't nearly so bad.

Percy, it seemed, had managed to beg his way back into the fold. This might have had less to do with remorse and more to do with the fact that he had been sacked along with his infallible mentor, Cornelius Fudge, and was otherwise homeless. Fudge's office was being filled temporarily by one of the higher ups until a new Minister could be elected.

_Dad's not just in the running, mate, he's got a ruddy good chance at getting elected! Dumbledore's backing his campaign, which pretty much cinches things if you ask me. Dumbledore is a very popular man lately._

Mrs. Weasley wished him a Happy Birthday and had, despite it being summer and sweltering outside, knitted him another sweater, which Ron informed him accounted for the rather lopsided appearance of the parcel he'd sent.

_I've sent some stuff in there as well, but my real gift is in the envelope with this card._

Sure enough, Harry found a thin, brightly coloured paper straw that looked amazingly like a muggle candy called 'Pixie Stix'. He studied it with slight trepidation before returning to Ron's letter. Apparently this new 'candy' the twins were developing was so sure to be a success that they went on a shopping spree, buying Ron new sets of both school and dress robes. They even were springing for Ginny a brand new broom; because, according to Fred, considering how she's now alternate Seeker to Harry, and considering as well Harry's aptitude for landing himself in the hospital wing, she's very likely to need it.

_All this spending is starting to worry Mum, but trust me, Fred and George are gonna make a fortune. I got to play guinea pig, as the candy's still in the testing stages, and I don't think it's much more than coloured sugar to tell the truth. But I'm guessing they fixed it with some sort of cheering charm. And Bloody Hell, does it ever cheer you up! I figured you could use some for sure. Be careful though, it's still too strong. Kinda like drinking too much firewhiskey but without the clumsiness and fewer giggles. Now that I think about it, maybe it's best that you didn't try it until you're free of the muggles. For some reason it gives you the bollocks of a bloody hippogriff, I'm telling you. I don't remember a whole lot of what happened after Fred let me test it, but I'm thinking I just might have propositioned Hermione. I can't think of any other reason why I'd wake up with a sore jaw and her giving me the silent treatment. She still won't tell me what I said, and I keep trying to explain to her that I can't apologize if I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. Not that she'd forgive if I did, probably. Anyway, I keep begging Fred and George to let me try another, but all they ever do is grin at each other (which kinda makes me nervous) and start jabbering about the money they're about to make. Eh. It's alright though, I've found out where they keep it all stashed. Got one in my hand right now, actually. Don't know what I'm going to do when they move back to their flat. It's crazy here, mate, I'm telling you!_

Harry had never known Ron to be so verbose, at least not on paper. He looked down at the 'candy' he still held with renewed apprehension and dropped it into the box with Hermione's chocolates before reaching for another letter. Before he could find one under the mess of wrapping paper and empty envelopes however, there was a knock on his door, followed by muffled grumbling.

Harry didn't reply and hoped the Dursleys would just give up and go away. But after another sharp knock the door opened without Harry's consent, revealing one of the most hideous sights Harry had ever been privy to. As he stared back at the Dursleys, standing crammed inside his bedroom doorway sporting forced smiles, Harry thought vaguely that this was the stuff nightmares were made of. For a while, no one spoke, they all just stared at Harry as the clock in the hallway announced the passing seconds. Finally, his Aunt Petunia cleared her throat pointedly.

"Popkins," she urged Dudley in a sing-song voice. Dudley groaned and stepped toward Harry as though at gunpoint, thrusting out the fancy gift he was holding.

"Hapbirthdy," he grunted and immediately started studying the walls. Harry looked at the package being offered him and was actually very impressed. It was covered in a pearly white, obviously expensive, wrapping with a ridiculously large, gauzy bow on top. He guessed whatever was inside must really be something, at least to the Dursleys' minds.

"No thanks," he said, looking up at Dudley, who looked quite put out about the fact Harry still hadn't taken the box from him. "Really, you guys didn't have to. You keep it, Duds."

Dudley gawked at him as if he'd grown another head and then turned an almost fearful glance back at his father.

"Listen here, boy!" his uncle said, already red in the face. "We went to all the trouble of not only remembering this _accused_ date, but also spending more than you're worth of our hard-earned-"

"Ver-non," Aunt Petunia warned through smiling teeth in her 'not in front of the company' voice.

"But, Petunia dear, he acts as if we're trying to hand him a ruddy bomb. Not that I wouldn't like to," he added under his breath. "I didn't get up and put on my best suit just to watch the ungrateful little whelp snub-"

"_My!_" Aunt Petunia spoke over Uncle Vernon, her eyes unnaturally wide. Vernon grunted and fell silent. "It looks as though you've already got quite a lot of presents there," she continued to Harry, so politely he wondered she hadn't hurt herself. "I suppose it's just a bit overwhelming to open them all at once?" she said, trying to smooth things over. But Harry wouldn't play along.

"Actually, no. I don't really want any of these either." Petunia's smile soured slightly. Harry picked up the box of Honeyduke's sweets and dumped it atop the shiny gift Dudley still held extended. "There you go, Duds. Knock yourself out."

Uncle Vernon made a noise like he'd just swallowed something especially unpleasant at the sight of Dudley digging through the confections, his eyes round as saucers.

"Now, Son, you don't want to ruin your lunch," he said nervously. "Just you hand that here to me until...after."

Grudgingly, Dudley withdrew his fat fingers from the box, but Harry saw him pull something from it where Uncle Vernon couldn't see and slip it into his pocket. Vernon would have had a heart attack, and Harry had the impulse to give Dudley away to him. He might actually have enjoyed the promising glare he'd've gotten from Dudley for ratting the porker out. But more than this, Harry just wanted the Dursleys to leave while everyone still had their heads so he could open the rest of his cards and have that over with. Besides, he didn't think he had the energy for the potential theatrics. Dudley shuffled over to his father, who almost took the boys hands off snatching the suspicious candies away from him.

"Very well then, Harry. We'll just leave your present on the hall table then shall we?" Petunia simpered. Harry shrugged and, grumbling, the Dursley's finally shuffled off, pulling Harry's bedroom door closed behind them.

Back to the matter at hand. Hagrid's card wasn't even a card, only a scrawled, near illegible note folded in two and wishing him a 'Happee Birthdae.' That and the absence of the usual box of what always seemed to be homemade gravel, otherwise known as treacle fudge, (for which Hagrid did apologize) told Harry the Order must be very busy indeed.

His dim spirits were beginning to turn dark. There was only one small package left unopened and no card, and there had not been any mention of his imminent release. Harry felt a sulk coming on and was tempted to ignore the rinky-dink parcel and go back to bed. But a disgruntled glance at it revealed there was writing one side, and so Harry cocked his head to read the slanted, upside-down script.

**To: Harry  
From: Remus**

Harry's throat tightened. He had never received anything from Professor Lupin himself, only regards included in Sirius' letters to him, and so it was impossible for Harry to think of Lupin without also thinking of his godfather; without remembering that night in the Ministry when Lupin had caught him in his arms as he had tried to rush forward and pull Sirius from the arch.

_He's gone, Harry_

It took a moment for Harry to recover from the memory, but when he had he went ahead and picked up the small parcel and found, to his surprise, a note had indeed been included. It was adhered to the top so that the box would be impossible to open without first removing it. Harry tried in vain to swallow the ever growing knot in his throat. He didn't think he could bear to read the same, vague, impersonal small talk from this man so intimately linked to him through mutual tragedy. Hesitantly, Harry tore open the flap and removed the strip of paper. His heart gave a trip as he scanned the first line.

_Harry, do not open my gift to you until you have read this through. First, I want you to grab your wand and anything else small enough to fit into your robe pockets that you feel you cannot live without for at least a few days. I've made arrangements to collect the rest later on._

There was nothing more. Harry blinked at the note he held and then down at the small, inconspicuous package resting in his lap. In the next moment Harry had donned his robes, pulling them on so quickly he missed the opening and almost ripped a hole in the sleeve. Stuffing his wand hastily into the inside pocket he took inventory of his room, accessing each item his eyes fell on in turn as to their importance to his very immediate future. His gaze fell, and wistfully lingered, on the trunk at the foot of his bed. He wouldn't have an opportunity to use it, but he hated leaving behind his beloved Firebolt, despite that it didn't exactly fit the size criteria. Reluctantly, he tore his eyes from the trunk and practically lunged at Lupin's gift, falling to his knees beside his bed and seizing it with trembling hands. Plain, brown twine bound plain, brown paper to a plain, brown box, and inside was an inanimate, novelty snitch. It appeared to be made of plastic and was sloppily painted an unrealistic shade of yellowish orange.

Harry wet his suddenly dry lips and took a shaky breath, flexing the fingers of the hand he held poised over the box. Tentatively, he reached inside. But before his fingers brushed the surface, he jerked his hand back with a curse as though the thing had bitten him.

"Bollocks," he muttered, rising abruptly to his feet. He couldn't believe he'd almost forgotten it. Wrenching open the bottom drawer of his dresser, Harry quickly fished Sirius' mirror from the folds of a pair of badly worn and long retired boxers. Sunlight glinted off its surface, warming his face for the briefest of moments. He squeezed his fingers around it and let a sigh of relief before slipping it into the pocket of his jumper. Then without further hesitation he strode over to his bed and plucked the snitch gingerly from its container. Instantly, Harry experienced the unpleasant, albeit familiar, sensation of being dragged forward through space navel first.

After a short eternity, in which Harry felt he would certainly be sick, his feet finally struck solid ground. When he regained his senses, he found himself standing in shadows, staring down a dark and musty hallway. Silence pressed in on him accompanied by a sense of severe apprehension.

"H-hello?" he called, but his words were devoured by the darkness. Heart pounding, he decided to venture a step forward. But just as he lifted his foot to do so, a hand reached from the darkness to his left and clasped his shoulder.

Harry gave a small cry and jerked away from the hand, turning in time to see Professor Lupin step forward into the scant light of a distance hall lamp. Harry's relief was so great that, for a moment, he had difficulty breathing. Lupin gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"Happy Birthday," he said, offering Harry a weary but sincere smile. Harry grinned back at him thinking that, now, it just might turn out to be.


	2. Outrageous Fortune

****

Chapter Two: Outrageous Fortune

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, and he'd meant it.

"I think we're passed formalities, Harry," Lupin replied with an uncharacteristic terseness. It bordered on exasperation, and Harry felt quite sure it couldn't be attributed to the unusually tired rasp in Lupin voice. "This isn't Hogwarts, and I'm no longer your professor now am I? Call me Remus," he finished in a consenting whisper. Harry gave him an uncertain smile and nodded. Lupin regarded him for a moment with an expression Harry couldn't quite decipher and then quickly released his shoulder and looked away. The action made Harry a bit uncomfortable. To hide this he looked around him at the dimly lit antechamber, which he found he now recognized.

"We're still here, then?" Looking about as well, Lupin nodded ruefully. 

"Wasn't this a bit dangerous?" Harry asked, referring to the toy snitch displayed in his open palm. "I mean, what if Voldemort had intercepted the owl? Might have been a nasty surprise to find him here instead of me." Remus took the toy from him and studied it as though gathering his thoughts, but Harry could tell the gesture was diversionary, and he was becoming increasingly disquieted by Lupin's reluctance to look at him. He was bothered, too, by the dark shadows he saw beneath the professor's eyes which he felt certain were not caused by the lack of proper illumination in the small anteroom.

"The plan had its risks," Lupin conceded with a small sigh. "But we felt this was safer than transporting you here by broom again. Besides, to anyone other than yourself this would just have seemed a worthless plastic bobble, given by a very poor, or very cheap, friend." Lupin's shadow of a smile appeared to Harry more like a grimace. "It was keyed to you, designed to activate at your touch and yours alone. A very tricky bit of magic, but Dumbledore does have a knack for these sorts of things." 

"Dumbledore?" Harry asked with slight surprise. "Is he here?"

"Of course he is," Lupin replied, returning the snitch to him. "He's waiting for us in the kitchen. Come along, Harry," he said, rather too solemnly for Harry's liking. "There are many things we need to discuss." He gave Harry's shoulder a hesitant pat and, for the first time since Harry had arrived, dared a brief moment of eye contact before turning abruptly to lead the way. Harry hesitated to follow, but only for a moment. He was unsure what to make of Lupin's behaviour and appearance. The professor had always seemed far more weathered and world-weary than was proportionate to a man of his age. But this advanced maturity had always been accompanied by an air of resignation, a subtle but unshakable optimism. Though now Harry sensed a definite despondence, and as he followed him, he noticed Lupin's posture was more bowed than usual, as though he bore a weight more oppressive than merely his lycanthropy. 

As they wound their way through it, Harry found Grimmauld Place to be just as dour as he remembered it. The silence, broken only by the tick of Lupin's boot heel on the hardwood, was almost suffocating despite the sharp chill in the musty air. Harry wondered vaguely where Ron and Hermione must be hiding and if they were even aware of his arrival. From the tone of their cards, Harry guessed they had not been let in on Lupin and the Headmaster's plan.

The old house was not, however, completely unchanged. Most apparent was the absence of the long row of stuffed heads of house elves that had once lined the hall. Small oval-shaped patches of immaculate wallpaper shown where they had once hung, preserving it as the walls had stained and darkened around them. The ovals stretched on like a stencilled pattern down the length of the hall, fading in and out of the shadows between each generously distanced, low burning sconce. 

Though Harry studied his surroundings with mild curiosity, he noticed the professor drifted through them with blatant and conditioned indifference, as though he were a ghost haunting this place and not a corporeal resident. Harry tried to imagine what it must have been like for him to return to this house after than fateful night at the Ministry, knowing that this dreary leviathan had been where Sirius had been forced to spend the last months of his life, miserable and restless. Harry knew that Lupin had been at Sirius' side for much of that time, perhaps the only thing that had made his godfather's tenure here bearable. And now Lupin was locked here himself, with little more than those memories and the brief presence of scurrying, preoccupied members of the Order to keep him company. That and, at the moment, school children likely too concerned with each other to provide much in the way of companionship. 

Harry's apathy gave way to an almost crushing compassion, and he resolved to devote as much of his time to Lupin's company as he could or that his former teacher would allow. He looked about him at the bleak expanse of locked doorways, draped windows, and grim hallways and shuddered, amazed that the man had tolerated it all for this long. For that matter, Harry now wondered how he himself was going to bear it, and for a moment almost longed to be back in his bedroom at Privet Drive. It may have been lonely there, but at least there had been sunlight through the window and no constant reminders of his recent lose. Harry was struck by a sudden dread. 

He was in Black Manor. But there was no Black. Not any longer. The realization was disconcerting, and as they rounded the corner by the foot of the stairs he actually reeled and almost stumbled. 

He took a deep breath. He needed to get a hold of himself. After all, it was only a house. And Remus was here, and Mrs. Weasley. And Ron and Ginny and Hermione as well. 

Harry looked down at the floor directly in front of him to steady his step and noticed his hands were shaking badly. He also realized he still held the snitch but in a dangerously loose grip. Harry made to stuff the toy into his robes, but his suddenly clumsy fingers caught on the edge of his pocket and knocked the snitch from his hand. He snatched at it, only succeeding in batting it away from him with added force. 

It fell to the floor with a startlingly loud, hollow clatter that was exaggerated by the resonate surroundings. Ahead of him, Professor Lupin started and spun toward the sudden commotion. He watched as Harry scrambled frantically after the still bouncing snitch, snatched it to him as if it were his most prized possession, and then froze in place on his hands and knees in a kind of terrified anticipation.

Nothing happened. 

The silence stretched on between them as they stared at each other in equal but separate confusion. 

"She didn't scream," Harry said finally, completely awestruck. 

Lupin relaxed. "Ah," he said slowly, realizing the inspiration behind Harry's odd behaviour. Then he smirked (something Harry had never seen him do and didn't think suited him at all) and lazily gestured toward the wall beside him. Harry inched forward and craned to see around the banister, and his mouth fell open. 

The space where Mrs. Black's portrait had once hung was now bare. But instead of the pristine wallpaper that denoted the former position of the now absent house elves, the paper there was curled back in a very large, charred circle, and smoke and scorch marks rose from it all the way to the impossibly high ceiling. Lupin stared at the spot with lax but open contempt.

"Don't fret about making a bit of noise, Harry," he said with a wry expression. "She'll not be bothering us ever again." The words had been so low Harry had barely heard them, and judging from Lupin's expression Harry thought it best not to ask questions. 

Without offering to help him to his feet, Lupin turned and continued toward the kitchen. So Harry pulled himself from the floor, casting an uneasy glance at the retreating back of his friend and then another over his shoulder at the scarred, Mrs. Black-free wall as he passed. 

Stepping into the kitchen was like stepping into an entirely different world. The cold, musty air was here replaced with the warm and enticing aroma of Mrs. Weasley's excellent cooking. His mouth already watering, Harry looked over to see a large pot of what appeared to be stew simmering over a low fire that cast a cosy glow over the entire room. There was nothing here that wasn't inviting. Baskets of various, colourful vegetables and other items sat snuggly on the countertops between mixing bowls and cooking utensils and recently emptied cups and bowls. Everything in the room seemed either fresh or well used, as opposed to the rest of the house which was simply old and worn. 

Standing at the far end of the long dining table waited Professor Lupin, and sitting to his right was Dumbledore. When the Headmaster caught Harry's eye he rose and beckoned him further inside with a welcoming smile. 

"I see you have arrived safely," he said, pointing Harry to a seat directly across from him. "Very good."

Harry slid into the proffered spot as Lupin took a seat at the head of the table to his right. Harry, who hadn't realized just how hungry he was until that moment, glanced hopefully to the bubbling stew and then back at his two hosts. But it seemed refreshments would not be included with this meeting. 

"You are welcome to whatever you may find; afterwards," Dumbledore assured him. "Molly has even been so kind as to leave the stew on for you. Right now, however, I feel we need your full attention."

Harry's stomach growled loudly. "I'm sorry, Professor, but that may be impossible with Mrs. Weasley's cooking so close by," Harry said honestly. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles. At least _he_ had no problems looking Harry in the eyes now, which settled Harry's nerves considerably. 

"Indeed," he chuckled, steepling his fingers delightedly on the table before him. "But there are a few things we must get out of the way before we feast." With some difficulty, Harry ignored his stomach and settled himself in for what promised to be a weighty, if not lengthy, conversation. But true to form, Dumbledore did not come immediately to the point. 

"How have you been Harry?" he asked quietly. Harry swallowed and cleared his throat, but his voice suddenly eluded him, so he merely nodded slowly. 

"As well as can be expected, I guess," he was finally able to croak. Dumbledore nodded his sad understanding.

"Harry, has anything odd happened lately?" he asked now, very seriously. "Anything at all you wish to share with us?" Harry looked nervously between the two professors. But of the many times Dumbledore had asked him this question, or something very like to it, Harry for once had nothing to hide. 

"You mean besides that the Dursley's are acting like human beings?" Harry asked, earning him a smile from the Headmaster. "Nothing I can think of," Harry shrugged. Dumbledore was visibly relieved. 

"Alright," he said. "Now, since I believe Remus here has some other business to attend to, I think firstly we should discuss the matter of Sirius' will and your inheritance." Harry was taken aback, not only because this was the first time he'd heard his godfather's name spoken aloud since he'd left Hogwarts, but also because it never occurred to him that Sirius might have written a will. It certainly didn't seem like the kind of thing he'd concern himself with. Though, now that Harry thought about it, it made perfect sense and was likely standard for all members of the Order. He wondered vaguely if he should write one himself. Dumbledore let him process this news, waiting to continue until Harry looked back up at him expectantly. 

"As I'm sure you know, Sirius was the last remaining member of the Black family to bear that name. However, because of his long imprisonment much of the Black fortune has either been seized by the Ministry or redistributed among his many relatives." Harry seethed at the mention of Sirius' time in Azkaban, but even more so at the thought of Draco Malfoy enjoying Sirius' rightful inheritance. As though the Malfoys simply weren't wealthy enough already.

"Because of this," Dumbledore continued, " Sirius' holdings were few. Among them, however, is Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, which was likely overlooked, or ignored, due to its apparent abandonment."

"I've inherited Order headquarters?" Harry blinked.

"Well, not exactly," Dumbledore corrected. "For so long as the Order has need of it, or until you leave Hogwarts, whichever comes first, the deed will be held by Remus here. Which brings me to the next matter, the matter of your guardianship." Stunned, Harry looked over at Lupin, having a very good idea what the Headmaster was going to say next. But Lupin was looking at Dumbledore who then began to speak again.

"Granted, you are, as of today in fact, sixteen and of age...Which reminds me, I have not yet wished you a happy birthday. Yes, Happy Birthday, Harry," he said, twinkling again. Harry thanked him quickly, eager for him to go on.

"Oh, yes. However. While you still attend school, any question or decision that might arise concerning your well-being shall now be directed to Remus, as necessity dictates." Finally, Lupin met Harry's eye.

"Sirius asked me long ago if I might take over his responsibilities as your godfather should anything ever happen to him," Lupin informed Harry. "To which I readily accepted."

Harry felt a new surge of affection for his former professor and gave him a wide, grateful smile. One he was relieved to see was mirrored on Remus' face as well. "Splendid," he said in response to the pronouncement. No other word could describe it. 

"Thank you for trusting me, Harry," Remus said, gracing him with another weary smile. And Harry realized he did trust this man, completely, and was relieved that his 'well-being' did not now rest in the hands of another, even Dumbledore's. After Sirius, there was no one else Harry could think of he'd rather call godfather. 

With that, Remus excused himself. Either he really did have somewhere else he needed to be or whatever was left to be said was strictly between Harry and the Headmaster. Odds were, Harry figured, it was the latter. Dumbledore waited until the door swung to a close behind Remus, then turned back to a still grinning Harry. 

"Now then, on to the next order of business," he said, a bit more solemnly. "Though I understand at the time you felt it a necessity, and I can't say I quite disagreed, I must ask that 'My Army' be disbanded." Harry was crestfallen. He'd really grown to enjoy DA meetings, especially since Neville had begun to show promise. He felt he quite had a knack for teaching as well. Though, in all honesty, Harry wasn't sure he had the heart to continue DA anyway, especially since that near disastrous night in the Department of Mysteries. Dumbledore's words mirrored Harry's thoughts. 

"It was indeed a grand effort, and your intentions were admirable, but I'm afraid too many lives, including your own Harry, were needlessly endangered as a result. However, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher will ensure outside study will be quite unnecessary...for most others."

"You've found a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Harry asked, very interested.

"Of course. And while, I admit, judging from my past appointments you might be a bit wary of her, I assure you that I have taken special care in my decision this year."

"Her? Who is she? And why is she such a wonderful choice?" Harry asked, not meaning to sound so critical. Dumbledore only smiled. 

"You will be meeting her shortly." Harry felt he should have known better than to expect a straightforward response. "While Ms. Cobbleshot will indeed prepare your classmates," Dumbledore went on as though he had not been questioned. "Considering your exceptional circumstances, Harry, you will be undergoing additional training this year." Harry had, of course, expected this. He waited for the Headmaster to elaborate, but the wizened old man simply looked at him sadly and thoughtfully for a moment.

"I realize, Harry," he finally began, "that in the past I have played far too distant a role in your life." Harry nodded acceptingly, as though to absolve the Headmaster. "No, no. It is inexcusable, Harry," Dumbledore gently insisted. "I had reasoned that should the occasion arise, as it has far too often, that you should encounter Voldemort, he would go to great lengths to ensure it was under circumstances which made it quite impossible for me to come to your aid. I felt you needed to learn to rely on your own resources as the situation required. And I must say, you have never disappointed me in that respect." He smiled proudly down at Harry. "Though, in retrospect, I realize it has led you to be far too independent, to feel you had no choice but to take matters into your own hands. As I understand it, there have been several instances when you should have, but perhaps felt you could not, confide in me. And for that, I am truly sorry, Harry." 

Dumbledore was the one apologizing, so why did Harry feel suddenly guilty? He looked sheepishly down at the table in front of him. 

"I want you to know, Harry," Dumbledore said now, drawing Harry's attention once again, "that you should feel free to be completely honest and open with me at all times, without fear of reprisal. It is imperative that you do so. The threat we now face overshadows propriety and school rules. And there is nothing you could do or say to endanger my faith in you. For my own sake, I must know that you fully understand and appreciate that." 

Harry nodded emphatically. "Yes, sir. Of course."

Dumbledore sighed with relief and smiled his appreciation down at Harry. "Very good," he said to himself. "Now, let us discuss the real reason we are here," he began again, all seriousness. "I'm sure I have no need to tell you that, now that Voldemort's return has been publicly confirmed, he will pursue his schemes with ruthless urgency. Though many of his key followers now reside in Azkaban, I have no doubt he will manage to free them again soon enough. This has, however, thankfully delayed him. His first and primary endeavour will undoubtedly be your murder." 

Harry gulped and squirmed slightly. This was not news, of course, but it really had never been discussed so frankly. 

"While you have shown extraordinary resourcefulness in the past, you are presently no match for Voldemort now that he has regained his former strength. He well knows your potential..."

Funny, Harry wasn't sure he did himself, nor did he entirely trust everyone else's faith in him.

"...and will be anxious to strike before you can be taught to use that potential against him. We can waste no time, Harry. You will begin training immediately. And with the pressure of O.W.L.s behind you, it should be no problem for you to continue your regimen after term begins." 

Harry nodded his understanding, but the weight of the conversation was beginning to suffocate him. Lamely, he sought to lighten the tone. "You know," he said, raising an eyebrow in mock earnestness. "Angelina may be fit to be tied if my lessons cut too much into her Quidditch practices. I'll have no choice but to tell her to loose her wrath on you." 

Dumbledore smiled a bit, but wasn't easily swayed from his previous mood. "Ah, I do not think that will be a problem," he told Harry. "As all Quidditch matches have been cancelled."

"You're cancelling Quidditch?" Harry gaped, totally crestfallen. It was one of the few things that made his stressful existence tolerable, and he'd been denied it for far too long already as far as he was concerned. Well, at least he could still make a few laps around the pitch when things got too stressful. 

"In light of present circumstances," Dumbledore explained. "This coming year, I'm afraid all students will be confined to the castle and inner courtyards." 

There went the last of Harry's hopes. "No trips to Hogsmead," Harry grumbled dejectedly. It wasn't even a question. Dumbledore slowly shook his head. Harry now cursed himself for giving away all his Honeydukes goodies. "You realize, with my luck, I'm likely to be held personally responsible for all of this," Harry said, dreading having to meet his disgruntled classmates. 

"I'm afraid it cannot be helped," Dumbledore said with no hint of apology. Harry resigned himself to a Quidditch-less castle-arrest and bade Dumbledore continue with a baleful but acquiescent nod. The headmaster accepted the invitation without hesitation. 

"Beginning tomorrow you will have regular lessons with a variety of instructors on a range of subjects," he said, getting right down to business. "Seeing as Voldemort is likely to hold some sway over many of the more dangerous or mistreated races and part-humans, Remus has volunteered to instruct you on how to identify and protect yourself from various attacks of that nature. In that same token, Hagrid will familiarize you will some of the more dangerous magical creatures." He paused for Harry to nod his understanding. "Professor McGonagall will be giving you extra lessons in transfiguration, as it can be a most useful skill when attacked by things other than spells. Also Professor Flitwick will be teaching you some very useful charms. You will, of course, be receiving additional attention from Professor Cobbleshot as well. Unfortunately, you will be unable to meet with her until term begins." 

Harry was beginning to feel quite overwhelmed, and he could tell Dumbledore wasn't even finished yet. As he was attempting to come to terms with the prospect of his every waking moment being occupied by survival training, he thought he heard a soft rustling, as of well starched fabric, and very subtly the air in the room somehow...changed. Harry pulled himself from his misery long enough to look over and find Professor Snape standing stock still in doorway of the kitchen, looking very much like a deer caught in headlights. It seemed he did not expect to find Harry there as he was glaring at him, it seemed to Harry, as if greatly disappointed by the discovery. When their eyes met, Harry involuntarily bristled and Snape's eyes narrowed by a barely discernable degree; a subtle gesture which, on that sallow, pointed face, somehow always spoke volumes. 

"Snape," Harry muttered acknowledgingly under his breath. 

"_Professor_ Snape," Dumbledore reminded him quietly but firmly before turning to the intruder. "Severus, what excellent timing. Come in and have a seat." Without otherwise moving, Snape shifted his gaze to the Headmaster and raised an eyebrow. Apparently unaffected by the flat out refusal of his invitation, Dumbledore elaborated. "I was just about to inform Harry here that he is to resume his Occlumency lessons with you tomorrow."

"_What?_," Harry said, completely aghast. "I thought _you _would be teaching me Occlumency. What was all that talk about playing too distant a role?" he demanded, forgetting all sense of seemly behaviour. 

"Harry," Dumbledore said patiently, "this is exactly what I had been working toward telling you. Though I _have_ been far too distant, and though I hope to become much more involved with your affairs; as always I have your best interest in mind, and in this matter we think it best that you continue to study Occlumency with Professor Snape."

"We?" Harry looked incredulously from the Headmaster to the Potions Master. Snape, it appeared, had been well aware of the arrangement though had not intended to be present for the announcement of it. Still, the sneer that had developed on Snape's face as Harry and Dumbledore had argued morphed into a amused smirk before Harry's eyes. No doubt the slimy git was enjoying Harry's present distress. It suddenly angered Harry beyond words that Snape had been allowed to witness it at all, and he drew himself up, determined not to give him any further satisfaction. But Harry's change in demeanour only served to amuse Snape even more. Harry was absolutely fuming. 

"I can't see how this is in my best interest," he blurted, looking pointedly at Snape. "What if he just decides to abandon me again?" 

Snape's cool façade crumbled and his entire body seemed to contract, as if it was taking every ounce of willpower he had to keep from strangling Harry then and there. It was Harry's turn to pull a satisfied smirk. 

"Do you _see_ what I endure, Albus?" Snape hissed as he and Harry glared daggers at each other. Dumbledore quickly intervened.

"Professor Snape and I have discussed the events of last term," he said, trying unsuccessfully to draw Harry's attention away from Snape. "What happened was indeed unfortunate. But he has been gracious enough to overlook it and is willing to continue your lessons together on the condition that you apply yourself to his teaching." 

Harry gaped disbelievingly at the Headmaster. He was beside himself. "Gracious enough to-....apply myself-...But it was him that threw me out!" he finally managed to spit out.

"I'm afraid I cannot be swayed in this, Harry," Dumbledore said with an air of finality. Harry was undeterred.

"But why can't you teach me? Or _anyone_ else??" Harry begged.

"Harry, there _is_ no one else. Even if I had the time to devote to your daily teaching, I still do not believe my tutelage would be as conducive-"

"But he _hates_ me!" Harry interrupted.

"Exactly, Potter," Snape intoned. Harry shuddered and turned to glower at him. He never knew velvet could chafe so badly. 

"_Mister_ Potter," Dumbledore gently corrected. Snape curled his lip and continued. 

"Whoever might attempt to use Legilimency against you, _Mr._ Potter, will very likely _not_ like you. The attack will be neither gentle nor pleasant. It will be a sudden and savage rape of your subconscious in search of your most painful memories or anything else that might make an effective weapon against you. Albus, we feel, does not have the heart, nor the ability, to train you properly." 

"Oh. So he isn't a cruel and sadistic bastard and you are?" Harry said. Snape only raised his eyebrow and gave him what might almost be construed as a smile. 

"I would not have put it in quite that way," Dumbledore said now, not at all pleased, "But that is the gist of the matter." Harry looked from one to the other, finally crossing his arms and heaving an exasperated, though defeated, sigh. 

"I think I have had quite enough of this discussion, Headmaster," Snape said now. Harry refused to look at him again. "At your convenience, however, I do need a word with you." Dumbledore nodded and waved his consent. In a flurry of billowing fabric, Snape was gone.

Harry openly pouted, staring holes in the table before him rather than meet the Headmaster's eye. Dumbledore regarded him for a while before speaking.

"I need your implicit trust, Harry," he said candidly. "Though I realize I have done little in the past to deserve it." Harry lifted his eyes sheepishly. The man was too good at subtly instilling guilt. Damn him. Harry wondered if it was at all intentional. Of course Harry trusted the Headmaster. It was only that nightly sessions with Snape was just such a depressing prospect. 

"The times are dire, and you must be ready, Harry, _must_ be willing to endure what is required to become so." Harry uncrossed his arms and nodded, unable and unwilling to find his voice. "It may have little effect on your feelings toward him," Dumbledore continued, more gently, "however I'd like you know that I have immense trust in and respect for Professor Snape. I cannot force you to do the same. But I must ask that you behave toward him as though you do," he finished, looking over the top of his glasses at Harry. 

"Of course, Professor," Harry said weakly. "I'll listen to him. I promise." Dumbledore smiled at him and nodded. 

"Well I do believe that is all. You won't begin until tomorrow. Might I suggest you go get settled in, relax, enjoy your birthday?" His twinkle returned. "I don't want to ruin anything, but I hear tell Molly has a bit of something planned for this evening. Which reminds me," he said, rising and taking up two soup bowls. "Shall we feast?" 

Harry shook his head. "Um, no thank you, Sir. I'm not all that hungry any more."

"Are you certain? I really shouldn't, but I think I'll stay and have another bowl. Molly uses extra lima beans, you know." He chuckled. "It's as if she knows all my weaknesses."

Harry excused himself, waiting until he had passed through the door to turn back and glance at the old wizard so happily munching Mrs. Weasley's stew. "Lima beans," Harry muttered to himself. Then, shaking his head, he made his way up the stairs. 

*~*~*


	3. What a Noble Mind is Here Overthrown

****

Chapter Three: What a Noble Mind is Here Overthrown

Harry climbed the stairs to the room he had shared with Ron the previous summer, and so assumed he be again this year. Though, he fancied someone had added a few more steps to the flight since then. When he finally reached it, the door to the room was ajar, and so he pushed it open without knocking. 

Ron and Hermione both sat very close together on Ron's bed. As of yet unnoticed, Harry watched as they cast doe-eyed looks at one another. Not meaning to interrupt, he politely waited to be noticed, but was soon thoroughly nauseated. He finally, tactfully cleared his throat. When Hermione noticed Harry in the doorway she gasped and both of them pulled the hands that lay between them very quickly into their laps, staring, mouths slack, back at Harry. Not surprised in the least, but highly amused by their reaction, Harry gave them a quirky smile. 

"Well, don't all rush to greet me at once or anything," he said teasingly. Hermione was the first to recover from the shock of his sudden appearance, and she vaulted from the bed toward him. 

"Harry!" she exclaimed, flinging herself into a hug that quite took Harry's breath. Ron, who didn't appear to approve of Hermione's enthusiasm, rose as well, delivering a friendly slap to Harry's back. 

"We thought we heard something downstairs earlier," he said, grinning. "But we just figured it was Tonks reporting in." Harry chuckled at that, confessing his earlier clumsiness. Meanwhile, Hermione had recovered her sense of propriety and taken a few steps back, yet eyed Harry with a curious expression. 

"What?" asked Harry, thinking from the look she was giving him that he might have had a boggie or something and swiped at his nose. 

"Harry, you look...different," she said wonderingly. Harry's brow furrowed. He and Ron both looked down the length of his person, and then at each other. When Ron shrugged they both turned and looked inquiringly at Hermione.

"Different? How?"

"I'm not sure. You just look..._good_," she finished in slightly breathless awe. Harry blushed crimson. Ron toed the floor, tossing grudging looks up at Hermione who, after an uncomfortable silence, shook her head as if to regain her senses and cleared her throat. 

"So. H-how've you been?" she asked quickly with a forced smile, trying to gloss over the awkward moment. Harry shrugged morosely and she nodded. Another brief silence ensued. 

"Well what are we all just standing around for?" Ron said overloudly. Taking their cue, the three shuffled over to the beds to have a seat. But when Hermione chose Harry's instead of Ron's, Ron rushed past him looking very put out, and planted himself beside her, leaving no room for Harry himself. Ron then gave Hermione a critical look and she bit her lip contritely. Harry waited for whatever was passing between them to run its course, and when he deemed the coast was clear he plopped down across from them on Ron's bed. As if a spell had been lifted, everyone seemed to cheer considerably, expressing how nice it was to be together again. 

"Say!" Ron ventured, wasting no time after all the standard niceties had been exchanged. "Did you get a chance to try your birthday present?" Harry frowned and shook his head. "You don't happen to have it on you, do you?!" Ron asked, practically bouncing in his eagerness.

"Oh. No, I left it behind," Harry explained apologetically. " I kind of left in a hurry." Ron was heart-broken, but appeared to understand. 

"Fred and George caught me at it," he said dejectedly. "I haven't had a straw in over _two_ days." He groaned. Hermione, suddenly realizing what it was he was on about, rolled her eyes and heaved a very exasperated 'Oh not _that_ again.' But Ron just smirked and waved his hand dismissively, leaning in toward Harry as though she was no longer allowed to share in the conversation. 

"It's a real shame you didn't get to try it, mate. I told Fred and George we'd be more than happy to help them test it again. Though they didn't seem too keen on the idea. I guess you'll just have to wait until it hits the market." 

"Ron, really!" Hermione scolded, refusing to be shut out. "If we're lucky it never _will_ hit the market. And you shouldn't be encouraging them!" she added, crossing her arms. "I _ought_ to tell Mrs. Weasley."

"You don't dare!" said Ron, sounding thoroughly scandalized. 

"Oh don't I? It's for their own good!" she said defiantly. "They're going to land themselves in Azkaban with this nonsense." Harry followed the exchange with mounting intrigue. Obviously the two of them had been round and round about this before.

"What's up?" he asked. It was Ron's turn to roll his eyes. 

"_Hermione_ thinks," he began in a way that said very clearly that whatever she thought he considered to be completely ludicrous, "that Fred and George are making _cock_..."

"Coke!" Hermione corrected, blushing furiously.

"...Whatever, some muggle drug, and mixing it with sugar." He laughed. "Isn't that a lark?"

"Er...well, actually, Ron..." Harry said with an apologetic look. From what'd he'd gathered about the mysterious stuff, it sounded reasonable, and certainly would surprise him.

"See!" Hermione needled.

"Oh, not you too!" Ron heaved an exasperated sigh. "You two just can't accept that this is going to be the Weasley's big break."

"Big break right into prison," Hermione snapped. Harry was becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He was definitely staying out of this one. 

"Well, _I_ think they're brilliant," Ron said matter-of-factly, "and they don't _need_ a muggle drug to make money. So there."

"I happen to agree. But _apparently_ someone needs to tell _them_ that!" Ron and Hermione glared at each other. Harry decided it was time for a change of subject.

"So..." he said loudly and got completely ignored. "...What's the story with the portrait downstairs? Or rather, the missing portrait downstairs." You'd have thought he'd just suggested sitting down and having a nice, quiet tea with the Dark Lord. Their faces fell slack and, slowly, they turned to face Harry. Ron quite looked as though someone had died. "_What?_" Harry asked. Hermione glanced nervously at Ron as if hoping he had an answer. When none came she took a deep breath and seemed to be trying to decide where to start. 

"Professor Lupin hasn't quite been himself lately," she began in a measured voice. Harry didn't exactly need to be told this, it was all too apparent. Though, obviously there was much more to it than he had previously thought. 

"Yeah," Ron added hesitantly, "he didn't take it too well when...well, after that night...you know." Indeed Harry did, and could definitely empathize. So what was the big deal?

"So?," he asked when they didn't volunteer more.

"He's been kind of a loose canon," Ron said, but stopped again. Hermione sighed and decided it best to take it from the beginning.

"They'd been fixing up the house, cleaning out closets and wardrobes, taking things off the wall. Except for the tapestry in the parlour, and the painting in this room," she said, gesturing to Phineas' empty frame, "they'd managed to get everything else down."

"But Mrs. Black was being stubborn," Ron said, suddenly deciding to be helpful. "Wouldn't come down for nothing, and throwing a bloody fit whenever they tried something. But when Hermione got here, she dug up this really great removal charm from the library."

At the mention of the library, Hermione became instantly excited. "Oh, yes! The library here is fascinating, Harry. You should definitely go see it. There are just dozens of rare and one of a kind books, all of them very old. Mostly they're on the Dark Arts, but several are on lesser known charms and even potions!" She was nearly breathless at the mention. 

"Hermione practically lives there," Ron said, rolling his eyes in feigned exasperation and giving her a playful smile. "Even though we aren't really _supposed_ to go in there."

"No one said we were forbidden," Hermione interjected, highly offended by the insinuation that she was openly disregarding the rules.

"Lupin and Dumbledore frown on it 'cause of all the Dark stuff in there," Ron explained. "But you know Hermione. Keeping her away from a library is about as easy as prying butterbeer away from a disgraced house elf," he finished with a wink to her. Hermione clearly didn't approve of the analogy, but her glower was insincere. Their blatant flirting was beginning to make Harry squeamish. "She's found loads of great books on hexes and curses and jinxes," Ron continued.

"Mostly on how to _counter_ them," she added as a disclaimer.

"They'll be great for when we start back with DA," Ron finished excitedly. 

Harry shook his head at him. "There's no DA anymore. Dumbledore made me promise we wouldn't meet again." 

Ron looked almost insulted. "Wot?"

Harry shrugged. "He said he's found a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher that knows their stuff."

"Well," Ron said sulkily, "he's said that before. And Hermione's already snuck them out. Couldn't hurt anything if the three of us had a look at them."

"I agree," said Harry, "and this is all really fascinating and everything, but you're avoiding my question. What happened to Mrs. Black?" Knowing they'd been caught, Ron and Hermione dropped the pretence and finally attempted to just come out with it, blurting the story in turns so that Harry almost became dizzy.

"Professor Lupin tried to use the charm I'd found," Hermione started out, "but it didn't work..."

"...Sure made the old bat angry though. She started calling Lupin all sorts of dirty names. I thought he was taking it all pretty well actually. Prolly used to it by now. But then..." Ron couldn't bring himself to continue and glanced at Hermione who took the baton, though looked very uncomfortable.

"She...Well she started to say some very mean things about...about _Sirius_." She whispered his name much like she had once whispered Voldemort's, which slightly irritated Harry.

"Lupin just kinda snapped," Ron informed him, sort of dreamily as if lost in the memory of it. "He set her on fire. Just like that, as if he's just been waiting for an excuse or something. Didn't say a word either, just stood there and watched her scream and burn with this blank expression on his face." Harry sat heavily back on the bed, his concern for his newly appointed guardian returned with renewed force. Hermione sat looking thoughtfully at the floorboards. "Almost burned the whole place down," Ron continued. "Well, at least it took care of the problem I guess," he said with a short, half-hearted laugh. "Of course, no one said a word to him about it. We've just been giving him a lot of space. Especially after the Kreacher Incident." He slowly shook his head. Harry waited in vain for further explanation. 

"Well?" he asked peevishly. "Are you going to explain the 'Kreacher Incident' or not?" Ron woke from his thoughts and looked at him, mouth gaping.

"You don't know what happened to Kreacher!" he said. It wasn't a question, thus confirming Ron's claim to the title of Master of the Obvious. How the hell was Harry supposed to know any of this? Hermione looked even more disquieted than before. Her eyes misted over and when she spoke her voice quavered. 

"Professor Lupin's been a bit..."

"Sociopathic?" Ron offered. "Homicidal?" Clearly he wasn't as adversely effected by the 'Kreacher Incident' as she was.

"Ron!" she snapped, completely horrified. "The Professor has been under a great deal of stress lately," she vehemently insisted to Harry, though sounded as if the attempted justification was for her own sake rather than his. Hermione then fell silent, battling tears, and Ron looked at her imploringly, as if asking for permission to elaborate. Harry was on tenterhooks. Finally, out of utter frustration, he slammed his fists down on his knees and shouted at them. 

"You two are infuriating, you know that! Will someone _please_ just spit it out? Why is it no one can ever just give me a straight answer!?" 

Hermione's long threatening tears finally fell unfettered. "I suppose you might as well go ahead and tell him," she hollered at Ron. "After all, he'll probably be just as happy about this atrocity as you are. You're heartless! You know that? Both of you!" And with that she stood huffily and rushed from the room. Harry watched her go, not just a little upset by the condemnation. After all, he didn't even know what in hell they were taking about, and didn't feel he quite deserved to be called names for his presumed reaction to news he hadn't even heard yet. That Ron didn't follow her to try and comfort her, indeed, that he seemed quite unaffected by the display, told Harry this must have been an all too frequent occurrence. Once her sobs faded from earshot, Harry and Ron leaned in toward each other conspiratorially. Ron didn't need to be prompted.

"So what happened was, since..._Sirius_ (God, this whispering thing was going to seriously start getting on Harry's nerves) was the last Black, Kreacher wasn't bound to the house anymore. Little sodder musta known he was in for it, 'cause he disappeared that night. Prolly ran to the Malfoys," he added with a disgusted sneer. "But Lupin tracked him down. Supposedly it was the first thing he did when he got back. He searched the house, and when he couldn't find him anywhere he walked right straight back out the door to go look for him." 

Harry drank in Ron's narrative and scooted to the edge of the mattress, eager to hear what he was sure to be news of Kreacher's gruesome and most horrible death. God how he would have liked to have been the one to have given it to him.

"He was gone for days," Ron went on. "They said when he came back he looked like Death. He wasn't around to take his potion, see, so he's had a full blown transformation. And just running 'round the countryside, can you believe it? I'm surprised Dumbledore just let that slide. Anyway. He walked in after, like, a week and he had Kreacher's _head_, or what was left of it, tucked under his arm," Ron gushed, confirming Harry's assumption. "It's mounted on the wall of his room." Ron said this as though very impressed by it. Harry sat back with a gratified smile spreading across his face. He could certainly understand now why Hermione had been so upset. And she was right, he was tickled pink about the 'atrocity' and so forgave her presumptuousness. Ron nodded at Harry, his eyebrows raise, apparently very pleased with the effect his story had had. Harry thought about the irony of the Kreacher being mounted on Remus' wall. But as happy as he was to learn of the little cretin's untimely demise, the fact that his usually quiet and reserved mentor had been driven to such a violent extreme disturbed Harry very much. As if reading his thoughts, Ron spoke mournfully.

"Lupin's been a bit distant since that. He locked himself in with Buckbeak for days. Wouldn't talk to anybody." At the mention of Buckbeak Harry sat a little straighter. 

"How is Buckbeak, by the way? Do you think he'd mind if we went up to visit him?" Harry asked hopefully. Ron, who wasn't nearly so well acquainted with the animal, shrugged animatedly.

"If you could get there. But you'd be hard put to find him."

"Huh?" Harry asked, completely bewildered.

"Lupin's set him free," Ron said, once again as if this was something that Harry ought to have known. Harry was beginning to wonder how long his patience was going to hold out. "Since the danger of him getting killed by the Ministry is passed really, Lupin sent him back to the Dark Forest with Hagrid. And boy was _he_ thrilled." Harry could just see the gruff looking half-giant with a goofy smile, his small beetle-black eyes all a-twinkle with unshed tears at finally being able to take his old friend back home. Ron shrugged.

"Lupin said Sirius would have wanted it that way," he said quietly. "...He said he wished he could have done the same for Sirius...y'know, given him freedom...while he was still alive."

After that comment, neither of the boys felt much like talking anymore.

*~*~*


	4. Flashes of Merriment

****

Chapter Four: Flashes of Merriment

Mrs. Weasley did indeed have something planned for that evening; much more than just a 'bit' if their scant lunches were any indication. She limited them to one sandwich apiece, and Harry almost choked on his twice, as Mrs. Weasley seemed inclined to deliver spontaneous, rib-cracking hugs without warning whenever she passed within three feet of him as she bustled around making preparations. By their sympathetic though wary expressions, Harry had the feeling both Ron and Hermione had been through a similar ordeal upon their respective arrivals. 

When she wasn't testing the integrity of Harry's ribcage, Mrs. Weasley chatted compulsively, coming near to tears several times for, as far as Harry could tell, no apparent reason at all. The three bolted down their sandwiches and were not disappointed in the least when she shooed them from the kitchen, informing them it was off limits until she came to fetch them later that evening. 

The afternoon passed lazily. Ginny popped up now and again though generally made herself scarce. Harry got the distinct impression this had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Ron and Hermione. When she did surface she was brief, and before leaving she would fix them with a knowing look, smiling teasingly at her brother (which never failed to make him blush) and throwing Hermione an encouraging wink.

"She stays in her room all day," Ron informed him sulkily, "writing to _boys_. Gone absolutely nutters about them. She won't tell me their names, but when I find out...." Ron looked positively murderous. 

"She's not a little girl anymore, Ron," Hermione chastised. "You can't keep her from them forever."

"Can't I? I know how boys are. Only after one thing, and they aren't getting it from _my _little sister. Not if I can help it."

"Only after one thing are you?" Hermione asked, eyebrows raised. "Then maybe I should leave you two to plot the desecration of young girls' innocence and go help Mrs. Weasley."

"Well, not _all _boys," Ron whined. Which translated to: 'Well, not _me'_. 

"But most of us, y'know," Harry said teasingly, watching Ron and winking at Hermione. "It's a pretty dangerous game, Hermione. Maybe you should think about playing for the other team," he suggested. Ron threw him a 'who's side are you on?' look.

Hermione scoffed and shook her head. But then looked thoughtful and said, "Not that there's anything wrong with it, mind you." She then expressed her advocation of gay rights and her admiration of the courage possessed by those openly homosexual. Ron was looking absolutely frantic. Harry was about to explode trying to hold back his giggles. Finally Hermione took pity on Ron and added, "But that's just not my cup of tea," and patted him lightly on the knee as she graced him with an indulgent smile. Harry could hear Ron's sigh of relief from across the room. 

They passed the time alternating between Exploding Snap and wizard chess, trying to ignore Hermione who insisted on reading aloud from the many books she'd pilfered. 

"Ooh! Listen to this," she exclaimed as Harry's knight took one of Ron's pawns. "Did you know thestrals can live to be over _three hundred _years old?"

"Isn't that fascinating?," Ron deadpanned, clearing what was left of his chess piece from the board. Thestrals were indeed not Ron's favourite subject, though Harry found Hermione's trivia rather interesting. He hadn't whole disliked their flight from Hogwarts to London. But then, he'd been able to see what he was mounted upon. 

"They were considered bad luck," Hermione continued, "as they were most often seen after great battles, scavenging the fallen. They were associated with unicorns of all things, considered to be their darker counterparts. It was thought that they were attracted to death, evil, and treachery as unicorns are attracted to youth, innocence and goodness." Ron grumbled. Whether it was because of the thestral lesson or because Harry took another of his pawns, Harry couldn't tell. Most likely a combination of the two. 

"There are all sorts of things about magical attraction in here," Hermione continued, ignoring him. "Virgins have been used for centuries to lure certain monsters, or else act as sacrifice. Muggle priests and nuns were believed the most efficient vampire hunters because it was once thought vampires craved only virgin blood."

"_Hermione_," groaned Ron finally. "Harry's about to have plenty of this stuff crammed down his throat on a daily basis. You think you could give it a rest and let him enjoy what may be his last day of freedom?" 

Harry actually _had _been enjoying himself, until Ron reminded him of his imminent doom that is, though he didn't say anything. Slightly affronted, but giving Harry a pitying look, Hermione stowed the stolen books and joined in a round of cards; which was slightly less enjoyable because of it, as she insisted on contesting every card Ron lay down and citing rules every play. This soon incited an ugly argument and the game was abandoned. The rest of the afternoon was spent in near silence with Ron and Hermione pointedly ignoring one another. 

At six o'clock sharp, Mrs. Weasley rescued them with a summons to the basement where there was assembled enough food to feed two armies. A shiny red and gold banner, very similar to the one hung to celebrate Ron and Hermione's being made prefects the year before, was strung across the far wall. Beneath it were what appeared to be all those associated with the Order who could spare the time. The twins pulled Harry into back to back noogies, releasing him just in time to receive a clap on the back from Hagrid that sent him staggering. A chorus of 'Happy Birthday's greeted him. He smiled gratefully back at Ginny, Tonks, Mundungus Fletcher, and even Percy, who rose from his chair and shook Harry's hand as if they were old war buddies. "Dad couldn't make it, what with the election," he said importantly. "He's asked me to pass along his well wishes."

Harry searched the assembly, but there was nary a sign of either Remus or the Headmaster. Harry couldn't help but feel a bit dejected, despite the sea of good cheer through which he presently waded. Mrs. Weasley stood behind the crowd, smiling hopefully at Harry, and he forced himself into an approving smile and nodded. She practically burst with gratification. 

"Now Harry dear, you sit right here at the head of the table and we'll fetch the cake," she said as she stepped forward to seize him and steer him to the seat of honour where he was to be doted upon and generally embarrassed for the rest of the evening. Though, between Mundungus' anecdotes of capers gone awry and the antics of both Tonks and the twins, Harry found himself enjoying the evening despite himself. It was, after all, his very first birthday party. 

Hagrid was the first to leave. As soon as the candles were blown out he gave Harry another hardy slap on the back that almost sent him face first into his cake, and then disappeared. Percy, who was a bit quiet though otherwise his pompous self, was next. He became uncomfortable at any mention of the Ministry, and was particularly insulted when Tonks, during a series of requested impressions, morphed into Fudge, insisting adamantly that her pumpkin juice was in fact only water, and then that is most certainly did not exist at all ("Harry, how dare you spread such wild and unfounded rumours! Why, they haven't made pumpkin juice for years.") as she sought to dispose of it 'nonchalantly' into Harry's goblet. Percy finally stormed off when his very loud, and equally pathetic, defence of the former Minister was drowned out by a chorus of snorts and giggles. 

During the lull, after the cake had been cleared and Hermione and Ginny were chatting idly with a now 'normal' Tonks; and Mundungus had left on some important business for the twins who Harry noticed were being cornered by a near frantic Ron as they tried to make their own exit, Harry shuffled over to an ever-busy Mrs. Weasley to thank her for the party. 

"My pleasure, dear," she beamed, eyes moist again. "My pleasure."

"Er. You don't happen to know where Remus is off to?" he asked hopefully. 

"Why yes. He's gone to Surrey to collect your things. The poor dear," she said sadly. "He felt it was the least he could do, not having much else to give you for your birthday." But as the subject of poverty disquieted her, for obvious reasons, Harry quickly thanked her again and, despite the resultant groans and pleading, bid everyone a good night.

Harry drug himself, tired and satiated, upstairs. It had been a considerably eventful day, and the next (he shuddered) promised to be as well. He certainly did not look forward to his Occlumency lesson with Snape. The man seemed put on this earth expressly to make Harry miserable. He half wondered that Snape hadn't shown up tonight, just so he might sour the celebrations. Still, despite Snape's blessed absence, the evening had indeed been tainted. As he crawled into bed, Harry couldn't help thinking, sadly, that as nice as the gesture was, he'd much rather have had Remus there himself than the entire contents of Privet Drive. 

*~*~*


	5. To Bear Arms Against a Sea of Troubles

****

Chapter Five: To Take Arms Against a Sea of Troubles

Harry woke surprisingly early the next morning and, though he was still rather exhausted, found himself unable to go back to sleep. After much futile tossing and turning he gave up and rolled out of bed to begin searching for his clothes. He'd not brought a change and would have to make do with the outfit he'd worn the day before until Remus returned with his things. In fact, Remus might have already returned and not wanted to wake him, and that hopeful thought lent some speed to Harry's search. 

Harry shuffled around the room, half-asleep, having not yet even put on his glasses, drawn to bright coloured patches amid the grey tones of the room which he supposed to be his scattered articles of clothing. White. A shirt? Yes, there was his shirt. A smear of green, his jumper. Now where had his pants got to? A smudge of ochre peeked from under his bed. He stooped to retrieve it, but as he was bent and squinting into the dark beneath his bed, he heard a derisive snort and a snigger. Harry straightened, bleary eyed and sans spectacles, and looked about the room, but the only other occupant was Ron, or the lump in the bed across from him he assumed _must _be Ron, sawing logs still and dead to the world. Harry stuck his finger in his ear and gave it a wiggle. It was too early in the morning to think. He stooped again to resume his search.

"What a lovely pair of under shorts, Potter," came a voice from behind him. Harry leapt to his feet and did an about face. Phineas Nigellus was sitting in his frame and eyeing him in mild disdain. Harry flushed and lowered his armful of clothes to cover himself, dropping most of them in the process. 

"Do you mind?" Harry asked curtly.

"No. Not at all," Phineas replied lazily with a casual wave of his hand, apparently having no intention of leaving or even turning away.

'Git,' Harry thought, trying to crouch and feel for his pants without turning or uncovering himself with his wadded shirt. He'd never been particularly fond of Phineas, and now felt completely justified.

"Did they know," Harry asked sharply, groping the bare floor boards behind him, "that you enjoyed watching half-dressed boys when they appointed you headmaster?"

"I do not like watching boys, you impertinent whelp," Phineas replied with cool condescension. "I was simply commenting on the shabby condition of your wardrobe." Harry looked down and had to concede his faded blue boxers had seen better days. He blushed, dearly hoping these were not the pair with the holes worn in the seat. "As I seem to remember, your father was not exactly destitute. Surely you could come up with something less disgraceful," Phineas continued.

__

Finally, Harry's fingers closed on corduroy and he yanked his pants from under the bed and slipped into them as quickly as possible, feeling a wave of relief when he got the zipper up. 

"No. I do not 'play for the other team' if that's what you meant," Phineas sneered, refusing to leave Harry to dress in peace. God, had he taken dictation? Harry had forgotten about their voyeuristic roommate. Dumbledore had surely charged him with keeping an ear out, which made Harry rather uncomfortable. They'd have to be careful what they said from then on. No doubt Phineas had already reported the stolen library books. Though, if Dumbledore took offence to that he'd surely have spoken of it by now. Harry had a sudden thought as he pulled on his glasses and spied Ron. He certainly hoped his and Hermione's summer activities had been confined to holding hands and doe-eyed looks.

"Still," Phineas said thoughtfully and eyed Harry shrewdly, yet seemed oblivious to Harry's pointed attempt to ignore him. "A man doesn't necessarily _have _to be so inclined to appreciate something fine. It's a matter of aesthetics really." 

Harry froze. Did Phineas just call him fine?

"Was there something in particular you needed?" Harry snapped, pulling his jumper over his head and reaching for his shoes. Phineas drew himself up brusquely.

"Dumbledore sent me to make sure you woke at a decent hour."

"Well, I'm awake. You can go now," Harry said curtly. With a 'tsk' and a bit of indignant murmuring, Phineas disappeared behind one side of his frame. Trainers laced, Harry was ready to be gone and made for the door.

"Good luck," came Phineas' voice from the empty canvas. "From what I hear you'll need all you can get." He was still sniggering as Harry closed the door behind him.

Harry trudged to the kitchen, not completely alert but awake, and irritated. And _hungry_. It couldn't be later than six o'clock, and Harry found himself wondering what time Mrs. Weasley started her day. He'd likely have to scavenge. Though he didn't mind it. 

When he stepped into the kitchen, a small fire was indeed crackling in the grate and a plate of bacon, eggs, and biscuits sat steaming on the end of the table closest the door. But there was no sign of Mrs. Weasley. Harry eyed the breakfast ravenously, assuming hopefully that it was meant for him. But then he noticed something else that instantly ruined his appetite.

In the shadows at the far end of the table, almost invisible in his black robes and lank shield of greasy black hair, sat professor Snape, as sour and formidable as ever. Harry's day just went from bad to worse, and he'd only been awake for ten minutes. 

"What a surprise," Snape smirked. "Eager to begin are we?" Harry had the fierce desire to crawl back into bed and hide beneath his sheets until the day was over. "I was just about to rouse you," Snape informed him. _What an unpleasant way to wake up, _Harry thought with a slight shudder, imagining opening his eyes to Snape stooping over him like a vulture. 

"We're to begin so early?" He complained through a yawn as he wiped the last of the sleep from his eyes. 

"The sooner the better," Snape answered in clipped tones. "We do not have an unlimited window of opportunity. The Dark Lord is eager to do away with you." He said this in a way that insinuated he didn't quite blame him. "And at your rate of comprehension it will be a miracle you survive until Christmas. It is indeed unfortunate that you require such time-consuming distractions as sleeping and eating..."

__

Doesn't everyone? Harry thought. Snape made it sound as if he was exceptional in this. _The miracle _Harry thought _will be surviving the morning with you._

"...so let's get that out of the way so we can begin, shall we?," Snape finished, nodding to the plate before Harry. 

"Funny," Harry replied through clenched teeth, "Suddenly I'm not quite so hungry anymore."

"I did not ask if you were hungry," Snape replied smoothly but firmly. "I told you to eat. You need your strength. Though, I doubt the entire contents of the cupboard would be sufficient, considering." Snape looked Harry up and down, probably trying to decide whether or not to comment further on Harry's scrawny frame. "And I thought I made it quite clear last term how you were to address me, _Mr_. Potter."

Harry had to bite down on his lip to refrain from answering back. _You promised Dumbledore. You promised Dumbledore. _This became Harry's mantra as he plopped down moodily in front of his plate.]

"I see those muggles you live with failed to teach you anything in the way of manners," Snape said disgustedly as he watched Harry shovelling food into his mouth. "Though I sympathize, as I myself find it very difficult to teach you anything at all."

Harry's mantra was momentarily forgotten. "You told me to eat," he slurred, intentionally through a mouthful of biscuit, "_Sir_." He then concentrated on his eggs. Despite his aggravation, one couldn't _not _enjoy Mrs. Weasley's cooking. About mid-way through his meal, however, noticing the sudden cessation of the stream of insults from the opposite end of the table, Harry glanced up at Snape. He seemed to be concentrating on Harry's meal as hard as Harry was. The man followed every forkful from plate to mouth as if starving. Harry wondered why in hell he didn't just have some himself and stop ogling his. 

"Do you have to watch every bite?," Harry asked peevishly. "I promise I'm not hiding them down my jumper." Snape started and looked flustered. 

"Hurry up," he snarled, rearranging the sleeves of his robes as if they suddenly irked him. However, it was not humanly possible to ingest food any faster than at the rate which Harry now inhaled his breakfast. He threw Snape a suspicious look through his bangs, which went unnoticed as Snape pretended to be fascinated with his own lap until Harry pushed his plate back noisily and downed his orange juice, setting the empty cup down with a bang.

"Quite finished?" Snape asked, eyebrow raised as Harry glowered at him as though he'd been waiting impatiently on Snape for hours.

"Quite," Harry replied, smacking of sarcastic politeness. 

"Good."

Snape led him to an unused room on the topmost floor, far from where the rest of the house slept. _Probably so he can berate me as loudly as he wants without interruption_, Harry thought darkly. Snape entered before Harry and held the door open for him to follow. The room was large, though empty but for a few scattered pieces of furniture covered in yellowing and mildewed sheets. Snape closed the door and swept further inside the room, turning abruptly toward Harry when he reached it's centre, wand already in hand. Harry scrambled for his own wand, half expecting to be hit by _legilimens _before it was out.

"Relax, Mr. Potter," Snape said, his lip curling. "I have come to the conclusion that my previous method might not have been the most efficient." Harry tried to do as he was told, lowering his wand but finding it difficult to loosen his death-grip on it. "Now, I realize you've slept since, but do you by any chance remember how to prepare yourself for a Legilimency attack?" Snape asked, his eyebrows arched as if he doubted it.

"Clear my mind. Let go of emotion," Harry said shortly.

"Very good," Snape said in feigned admiration. "At this rate you may yet live to see Easter." Harry seethed, every muscle clenched in his effort not to say something he'd regret. _This is impossible_, he thought. 

Snape eyed him coldly. "This is impossible," he muttered to himself. So they were in agreement. There's a first time for everything. Snape put away his wand and found a chair among the sheeted furnishings, sitting down heavily. Harry wondered if he was expected to do the same.

"You realize, Mr. Potter, that should the Dark Lord attempt legilimency, you will not be warned beforehand and so will not be given the opportunity to prepare. You must be able to achieve the desired state of mind instantly and at will. Starting today I'd like you to perform daily meditation. Though what is desired here is not exactly relaxation, meditation _will _strengthen your discipline of mind."

"Meditation?" Harry asked sceptically. Snape glared at him until he remembered himself. "...Sir?" he added quickly. Snape took a calming breath and answered.

"Yes, meditation. I realize you may not be extremely world savvy, but surely you know what meditation is don't you?"

"Yes, Sir," Harry replied tersely.

"Bravo," Snape said dryly . "As it comes naturally to me I cannot, nor do I care to, instruct you on the process." Snape sneered. "Though I'm sure you can alert Miss Granger to your need. No doubt, if she isn't already as well versed in this as she is every other subject under the sun, it should be no problem for her to procure the necessary information."

"You want me to involve Hermione in this? Sir? I thought I was supposed to keep this all a secret, pretend I was taking _remedial potions_?," Harry cheeked.

"I did not tell you to inform her _why _you were meditating, only that you shall be and require her assistance," Snape said snidely. "Though, contrary to what you may believe, I am not an imbecile Mr. Potter, and know perfectly well that you share everything with Granger and Weasley...as unwise as that may be. Though it seems you have no qualms about endangering the lives of those around you out of your selfish craving for pity and attention."

"How dare you!" Harry shouted.

"Propriety, Mr. Potter," Snape reminded him darkly.

"Bugger propriety!," Harry spat, all memory of his promise forgotten. Snape eyes narrowed and glinted dangerously, but Harry wasn't intimidated. "You don't know anything about me and I'm sick of your assumptions. I'm sick of the way you treat me because of them."

"I know enough," Snape replied, voice low and threatening, "have _seen _enough to recognize your total disregard for caution, consideration, common sense, and the well being of those around you...Like father like son," he finished in a low hiss.

"I am _not _my bloody father! Don't you _get _that?!" Harry bellowed. Snape rose swiftly to his feet.

"I cannot believe the fate of the world rests in the hands of an impertinent _child_!"

"I am not a child!," Harry whined, sounding very childish indeed.

"Dumbledore is a fool. He's been far too free with you, allowing you to run amok unchecked. Even after everything, you still don't seem to comprehend that your impulsive behaviour may bear consequences other than you intend." Snape was standing menacingly over him now. "It takes a veritable army of us to chase along behind you, trying to keep you from killing yourself. I shudder to think how many more lives will be lost on your account!" 

Harry thought that terribly unfair. "It _wasn't _my fault that my parents...that Cedric...," Harry croaked, his voice proving fickle as he fought, what he considered to be, his childish tears.

"I suppose what happened to your travesty of a godfather has simply-slipped-your-mind," Snape forced through gritted teeth. That time, he'd gone too far.

"You can't blame me for Sirius!," Harry cried desperately, shoving at Snape, finding his proximity suffocating. "...you can't-"

"Can't I?," Snape said coldly, as oblivious to Harry's shoves as a stone statue. 

"Voldemort," Harry squeaked. "He-"

"Did not intend or even wish Black's physical presence at the Ministry that night." 

Harry stopped struggling and glared at Snape, anger replacing desperation. "If _you _hadn't goaded him...if you hadn't thrown a fit about the pensieve and stopped giving me my lessons!" Snape looked down at him icily, suddenly very calm.

"Your godfather was a grown man, Mr. Potter, though he rarely behaved as one. Still, he had enough sense to understand the danger of his situation. That he decided to risk his own life to save yours was his prerogative. Despite my 'goading', he refrained from leaving this house until the day he died. And at that time, considering your immediate peril, I _assure _you, no amount of pleading on my part...or anyone else's on the face of this earth...nothing short of a _full body binding _spell would have kept him here." Harry had backed away from Snape until he was pressed flat against the wall behind him and was shaking so badly he might have collapsed if he hadn't.

"As far as your Occlumency lessons are concerned," Snape continued condemningly, "If you had made the slightest effort to cooperate, I might have reacted differently. I _might _have called you back after I'd had time to calm myself. But it was apparent to me my efforts were in vain. I could have spent every waking moment attempting to teach you Occlumency, but as you _welcomed _the Dark Lord's bait, it would have been utterly futile." Harry couldn't reply, could barely stand, he was so angry. Just what did Snape know about it? He didn't know what Harry had been going through. He didn't know what it was like. No one did, or ever had. Who was he to lay blame?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," Snape said now, sounding completely unrepentant, "but you can no longer live under these self-delusions. We simply cannot afford it. We don't have time for your self-pity. I won't pretend to believe a word of, or to give a damn about, what that ridiculous prophecy has to say. But that doesn't matter. What is important is the Dark Lord _does _believe it. And the longer we keep you alive, the more time we buy, the longer we have to derail him before he launches an earnest attack. The truth is..." he said, his voice dropping to an ominous whisper as he leaned in closer to Harry "...you provide a very valuable distraction, Mr. Potter. And. Nothing. More."

__

A virgin sacrifice, Harry thought _Just like in Hermione's book._

No...it wasn't true. Couldn't be. Harry straightened and squared his shoulders, looking Snape dead in the eye. "You're a bastard," he said evenly, his anger and absolute hatred of the man in front of him reaching such a pitch that it suddenly lent him an inexplicable calm and clarity of thought.

Snape raised one eyebrow, though otherwise seemed unfazed, and reflected Harry's distaste back at him. "And you are an arrogant, ungrateful, incompetent, reckless, and insufferable prat," he replied in the same even tone. They glared at each other for a long while. Something was happening, a subtle change came over the very air. They were no longer even bothering to feign respect or resignation, or even tolerance. For a moment they hated each other openly, and something clicked into place. For a moment Snape's presence was not unbearable. Their admissions, spoken and unspoken, had somehow had a freeing effect and Harry thought, wonderingly, that he just might be able to do this after all.

"Now," Snape intoned, "are you quite ready to get on with it?" Harry nodded and Snape took several steps back, not bothering to count down before he uttered an impassioned '_Legilimens_!' But Harry had been ready for it. A few fuzzy images of Mrs. Figg's photo album full of cats, and then the dark, cobwebbed corners of the inside of his lonely little cupboard drifted across his vision, but he never lost sight of Snape. After only a moment's disorientation, Harry was able to cast a disarming spell, consciously and intentionally, and Snape's wand went flying out of his hand and over his head.

Harry's heart hammered in his chest and he felt utterly spent. He was bent double, but he still held his wand, and he was still standing. Harry felt vindicated, and lifted a triumphant gaze to Snape. The man eyed him critically. 

"Bravo," he whispered, stone-faced. But this time, Harry could have sworn he could detect genuine approval in the Potion Master's voice.

*~*~*


	6. This Mortal Coil

****

Chapter Six: This Mortal Coil

The lesson, though strenuous, was not considerably long, for which Harry thanked his lucky stars. Though he was certainly not as adept as he would have liked, Harry succeeded in disarming Snape twice more. However, as his anger cooled and his energy dwindled, he found himself easy prey for Snape's advanced skill. Sometime around eight in the morning, after Harry had collapsed in the room's lone chair and begged rather pitifully that they take a break, Snape declared the session over and swept from the room without another word. Perhaps the sincerity in Harry's voice had frightened him off. Not that Harry had expected praise, but he _had _wanted some idea of when he would next be subjected to this torture.

Harry drug himself to his feet and peeked behind the (luckily) de-doxied curtains just as Snape strode off the front steps and, a few paces down the deserted street, apparated. Harry stared at the empty space Snape had occupied only moments before and reflected on the rather odd, though strangely freeing, exchange between them. Then he gazed up over the roof tops of the stark and decrepit building across from him at the soft pastel morning that hung over London and longed for his Firebolt. The weather was perfect for flying. Not that he would have been allowed to do so, or really have had the energy just at the moment. The sun had not yet even risen over the low wall of morning clouds; he still had an entire day ahead of him, and all Harry wanted was to crawl back into bed. Muscles Harry wasn't even aware he had until that morning were beginning to ache. He felt like he'd been hit by the Knight Bus.

He made his way slowly down the stairs, each step a challenge all it's own, but his efforts were well rewarded. The rest of the house had begun to stir and Harry reached the kitchen just in time for a second round of breakfast. His first, though plentiful, had not been shown the proper respect, and after the morning's exertions he was again famished. Mrs. Weasley wasted little time remedying this. She loaded his plate with sausages, garnishing it with a hail of _Poor Dear_s and _That Dreadful Man. _He was thoroughly savouring a second stack of pancakes when Hermione immerged, soon followed by Ginny and, finally, a barely conscious Ron. 

His sausages devoured and so no longer a diversion, Harry asked Mrs. Weasley if Remus had returned. He had not. That meant that the shirt Harry wore, still clingy with sweat from his lesson and likely to soon prove unbearably offensive, would have to be tolerated a while longer. It also meant his lesson on part-humans would probably be cancelled. Harry had the rest of the day to himself. 

Hermione showed him the library where he ended up napping as she perused the shelves, covetously calling off all the more interesting titles. ("_The Dark Wizard's Lexicon. _No Death Eater should be without it, I'm sure. Ooh. _Poisons to Serve Your Friends: Inconspicuous Concoctions to Fool Even the Most Astute Apothecary..._How nasty. And here's an encyclopaedia of potions and their uses. This could come in _very _useful next term. Oh, and Harry listen to this one...")

They were put to work in the afternoon, winning new ground in their never-ending battle with the decade of grime that coated the house. Though Harry was excused from this labour, he lent a hand anyway, having nothing more exciting to do. He was set to work on the baseboards with a toothbrush and a pail of cleaning potion so powerful, he was convinced it was mostly comprised of acid and demanded a pair of dragon hide gloves. He worked his way around the room, scooting around the floor and scrubbing lazily until he sat beneath the family tree of the noble house of Black. It was easy enough to spot the scorch mark that had once been Sirius' name. Not far from it was Bellatrix'. Casting a couple of quick glances over his shoulder, Harry tried to see if his cleaning potion would eat through the name as well as it did the rest of the filth in the room. Unfortunately, it did not. So Harry sought to ignore it and studied the other names, most of which were rather odd and many foreign. Not far from Lestrange was a Lubershnitz. Different. Sirius also had cousins named Pakle and Jixy, and Cobbleshot. Hmm. Albert Cobbleshot? Rainey Cobbleshot? It sounded familiar, but Harry couldn't recall ever meeting anyone by that name. Well, the stitching was in pristine condition, which meant Harry probably wouldn't really want to know them anyway.

Around five, Mrs. Weasley drug Ginny and Hermione to the kitchen with her, and after a hearty diner at six, Harry officially ran out of steam. Before heading to bed he remembered to pull Ron aside and warn him about Phineas. ("You mean he's been listening the _whole time_?!" asked Ron, turning an alarming shade of crimson.) 

With each step that carried him closer to the promise of a cosy bed, Harry's energy ebbed further and further away, so that by the time he reached his room he was amazed he'd made it there at all. As he made a b-line for his bed, he decided he didn't give a light about Phineas and shed his clothes right and left before falling, bare but for his faded blue boxers, atop his sheets, where he promptly lost consciousness. He never heard Ron come up to bed, neither did he hear him rise, but when he woke Ron was already up and dressed and appeared to have been for some time. 

"What time is it?" Harry mumbled groggily. 

"'Bout eleven," Ron said. Harry gaped disbelievingly.

"_Eleven_?"

"Mum said we should give you a bit of a lie-in, as you had a hard day yesterday and are gonna have a hard afternoon today as well."

"I'm going to have a hard rest of my life," Harry grumbled and rolled onto his stomach, pulling the sheets over his head. _But the way it's looking, that might not be very much longer_ he thought to himself. Ron gave him a sympathetic look.

"Well you won't be alone, y'know. Me and 'Mione are taking the liberty of training up as well, just in case you need us." Ron threw an uneasy look over at Phineas' painting and started to whisper. "She's finding all sorts of great stuff in the library. We've got your back, mate." Harry's sleepy mind was still trying to digest the ''Mione' part (_Since when is she called 'Mione?)_ and it took him a bit to absorb everything Ron had just said. When it sank it, however, he ripped back his sheets and sat up, giving Ron a very serious look.

"Now, Ron, I don't want you two thinking you have to do that. It isn't that I don't appreciate the thought; but I almost got you killed last time." As Harry said this, it seemed he only just realized it, perhaps hadn't wanted to accept it, especially after what Snape had said the morning before. Though, now that he thought about it, and as much as he hated to admit it, the man just might have had a point. "This is my battle," he said sombrely, more to himself than to Ron. "I can't keep asking you guys to risk your lives for me."

"Why not? You're risking _your _life for all of us," Ron argued. Harry gave Ron a disgruntled look and reached for his glasses before rolling out of bed. "Fine then, if it makes you feel better, it's nothing to do with you alright?" Ron continued. Harry lifted his head from where he was stooped to retrieve his pants and raised an eyebrow at Ron sceptically. "We just want to be able to jinx the snot out of ferret boy next year. Satisfied?" Harry frowned at him. He couldn't keep them from studying, but he refused to condone their help. Finally he shrugged and Ron nodded as if all was settled. 

As he tightened his belt (curling a lip defiantly at Phineas' canvas) Harry glanced around for his shirt and found it had disappeared. He told himself irritably that he should have learned something from yesterday's episode, but he'd simply been too tired last night to care about where his clothes landed. Harry had dropped to all fours between his and Ron's beds to look beneath them when there was a knock at the door. He let Ron answer it as he continued to hunt. 

"Is Harry awake yet?" the visitor inquired softly. Harry immediately rose to his knees. 

"Remus!" he exclaimed happily, beaming at their most welcome guest. Professor Lupin turned toward the sound of his name, for a moment unable to discern where it had come from. When he spied Harry kneeling behind the bed, his mouth fell open and his eyes widened, but then narrowed in an almost feral way. Harry leaned forward onto Ron's bed, head cocked questioningly, but Remus had turned away. The man cleared his throat, speaking to Harry as if with some difficulty, and was looking everywhere _but _at Harry, which again the young man found slightly bothersome. 

"Excuse me," he rasped. "I didn't realize you...perhaps it would be better...I'll come back later." He stepped toward the door.

"No!" Harry objected rising to his feet. "I'm not busy or anything. I just woke up is all." Remus glanced over his shoulder at him and seemed somewhat relieved, though still uncomfortable. Clearing his throat again, "Yes. Well. Ron, would you excuse us please?" 

Ron, who had been watching the professor with increasing perplexity, came from his daze and shrugged. "What for? He's gonna tell me anyway."

__

Don't be so sure of that anymore, Harry thought. Besides, he could tell by his sober expression that Remus did not want an audience. "Go on, Ron. I'll meet you downstairs in a bit," he prompted.

"Not going downstairs. Was going to Ginny and 'Mione's room."

"Then I'll meet you in Ginny and '_Mione's _room," Harry said impatiently. Reluctant, but arguing no further, Ron shrugged and left. Remus closed the door securely behind him but didn't turn around. 

"So what's up?" Harry asked, swiping at his bed-hair. He was now very awake and even chipper almost.

"Harry, don't you think you ought to put on your shirt," Remus said, a little sharply.

"Can't find it," Harry explained, reaching over and peeking under his pillow for good measure. "I'll have to wear one you've brought me." Finally Remus turned and looked at Harry, though was reluctant to make eye contact. 

"Actually, that's what I've come to talk to you about," he said anxiously. Harry scrunched up his nose in confusion. What was there to talk about? Where had Remus disappeared to for the last two days if not to collect Harry's things?

"Um...you wanna sit down or something?," Harry offered, yanking at his pants leg and sitting himself. Remus was beginning to make him nervous just hovering by the door like that. 

"Oh no," Remus said very quickly, but after another furtive glance seemed to change him mind and haltingly took a seat on the corner of the bed furthest from Harry. _Do I smell? _Harry wondered, chancing a subtle sniff. No. Well, not _especially_.

"Harry," Remus began. "_About _your things. Actually, about your relatives...and...are you _sure _you can't find your shirt?" he asked to the floorboards. 

"I've not looked very well," Harry shrugged. "Why are you on about my shirt?"

"Because it's the only one you'll have until we make it over to Diagon Alley to buy you some new ones," Remus replied.

"What?" Harry asked with a small laugh, thinking for a moment this was a joke. "Why?" 

Remus sighed. "Because you don't own another. In fact, you don't have anything at all anymore except your wand and the clothes you came in."

"Plain. English," Harry requested tersely, becoming irritated with his cryptic friend. Remus pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. 

"Harry, you see, the Dursleys...Well, it's your cousin...," Remus took a very deep breath and fished something out of his pocket. "Harry, have you ever seen one of these?" A colourful, paper straw rested in his palm. 

"Yeah. Ron sent me one for my birthday. The twins made it. But I left mine behind," Harry explained shortly, wondering what in hell a potentially intoxicating candy had to do with his wardrobe. 

"Did you give it to your cousin?" Remus asked urgently. 

"No," Harry began, but recanted. "Well, yes, Sort of on accident. I gave him the box of chocolates Hermione sent me, and I forgot that I dropped it in there."

"Did your aunt and uncle _see _you give it to him?"

"Yeah, why? What's going on?" 

Remus studied Harry's face, trying to gage his reaction. "Harry, your cousin is dead," he said gently. The words seemed to float in the air between them, surreal. Harry looked at Remus sceptically, then started to smile and admit he'd almost been had. But something about Remus' grim expression made him pause.

"Dead?" Harry whispered. Remus nodded sadly.

"Poisoned," he explained. "It took quite a bit of doing, but we managed to get this from the muggle policemen," he said, referring to the now empty straw. 

"You mean it was the candy?" Harry blinked. "But Ron tried then too," he rushed to explain, "and he's just fine."

"No. It wasn't candy. The candy had been replaced with a poison." Harry shook his head, not comprehending, then gasped and looked back up at Remus. 

"Wait...surely you don't think Ron or-"

"No, we don't suspect Ron or the twins," Remus assured him quickly. "But we do think Ron's letter was intercepted." 

Hedwig! Where was she? Harry now wished he hadn't ignored her. Had she tried to tell him? Had she been hurt? He didn't even pay that much attention to her, might only have noticed if she had been bleeding on his letters. Now that he thought about it, he hadn't seen Hedwig since she had dropped off Ron's gift and wasn't sure she knew he was at Grimmauld Place. But surely she'd have come straight there after she found he wasn't at Privet Drive. 

"Dudley's dead," Harry said dazedly. It still hadn't sunk it. Someone had tried to kill him, Harry, and he had inadvertently killed Dudley. The first and only time he'd ever made any sort of friendly gesture toward the boy, and it had killed him. But not from shock as Harry might have expected. 

__

...How many more lives will be lost on your account...

"I didn't mean to," Harry blurted, but to no one in particular, unaware of the tears of panic that were rising in his eyes. "I...I didn't _know_," he insisted shakily.

"Of course you didn't, Harry," Remus consoled, laying a comforting hand on Harry's knee and appearing quite distraught himself. "We aren't blaming you at all...but we've got to be very careful from now on. They came much too close this time."

Harry could just imagine his aunt and uncle, raging over the death of their 'darling' son. Despite their strained history, Harry couldn't help but feel sorry for them. They'd saved his life by taking him under their roof, and it had cost them their own child. Harry knew they'd never believe him even if he could bring himself to express his condolences. They'd never ever forgive Harry if they found out...

"Do they know? I mean, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, do they know that the poison was...meant for me?," he asked timidly. Remus didn't answer right away. 

"They seem to believe you did it yourself," he said slowly. "They think that's why you disappeared. They had the muggle law enforcement looking for you. Of course the police aren't so sure. Dudley ran with a tough crowd. They think his death involves drugs....or at least, if they didn't before they do now. The Ministry has been working since day before last to get it all straightened out. But yes. Your relative are blaming you."

"Me?!" Harry couldn't believe it.

No. He could believe it, and it infuriated him. 

"So is that why they wouldn't give you my things?" Harry demanded, jaw clenched. "Couldn't you have just _taken _them?"

"I couldn't take them, Harry, because there was nothing left to take. Your Uncle destroyed everything. All evidence you ever existed at Privet Drive."

Harry was absolutely livid. He couldn't even shout another incredulous '_What_?!' God, he felt like smashing something. Preferably Vernon's skull.

"It's unfortunate," Remus said with regret, "but I'm afraid, all things considered, you won't be able to return to Privet Drive."

"I wouldn't go back if they _begged _me on their hands and knees!" Harry bellowed.

"You don't understand, Harry. You've lost your only real safe haven."

"As long as Dumbledore is secret keeper, I'm safe here," Harry argued. 

"It's not the same kind of protection, Harry. Not as secure."

"I should have come here before, anyway," Harry went on as if Remus hadn't spoken, growing more and more upset. "I should have come _last _summer, while Sirius..." Harry choked on the remainder of his sentence. Instead of comforting him further, Remus withdrew his hand and looked away, drawing a painful breath himself and looking more in need of consolation than his ward. Having mentioned Sirius, however, Harry was reminded of something else. He looked pleadingly at Remus.

"My Firebolt. Remus, please tell me he didn't-" Harry had barely started his sentence before Remus frowned at him sadly and began to shake his head. Harry was really incensed now. His Firebolt! A gift from Sirius and his most prized possession...gone forever. Every muscle in Harry's body was taut, he clenched and released his fists, flexing his arms in a near futile attempt to reign in his anger and not tear around the room in an absolute rage. He lifted his head abruptly to demand something else of Remus, but instantly forgot what it was. 

Remus was staring at him but, per usual, not in the eye. Though this time it was different. His mouth had fallen slack and his eyes were somewhat glazed. He looked...hungry, a ravenous animal catching sight of fresh meat. Harry had never seen that look before, most certainly not when directed at himself. It made him shiver, but not in an adverse way, and his heart began to beat a little faster. Then he became very self-conscious of the fact that he was still bare-chested, though made no move to cover himself. Harry just stared, awestruck, at the man who was staring at his chest, until Remus noticed his attention. He flushed badly and jerked his eyes away, suddenly restless and stammering. 

"Yes...er. Well. I suppose we'll have to get you some new things this week...first thing. I do believe your Hogwarts letters have come in this morning. Yes. So it will be quite convenient..." But Harry didn't absorb a word. He was still silently regarding Remus, as though entranced by him. He would never, could never, forget the expression Remus had worn, if only for a moment, as he had looked at Harry. 

"If you can't find your shirt," Remus continued to the far wall, standing abruptly, "perhaps Ron can lend you one. Oh...Though you aren't the same size. Let's see, I might have one. Then there's always....Sirius' closet," he said, voice trailing off to a hoarse whisper. He glanced at Harry and looked as if he wanted to say something else, but abandoned it and strode hastily to the door. There he stopped, half-way through. He swallowed hard and wet his lips, and chanced another glance over his shoulder.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Harry," he said softly. Then he was gone. 

Harry watched him go, still dumbfounded. For the life of him, he could not be quite sure exactly which part Remus had just apologized for. 

*~*~*


	7. Make Your Wantonness Your Ignorance

****

Chapter Seven: Make Your Wantonness Your Ignorance

__

...a useful distraction...nothing more...

...what happened to your travesty of a godfather...

You can't blame me...

Can't I?

I want you to take this.

What is it?

A way of letting me know if Snape is giving you a hard time...I want you to use it if you need me, all right?

Harry sat in the floor of Sirius' wardrobe fondling the small mirror that was now his last remaining souvenir of his late godfather. He'd come here in search of a shirt but had found, instead, a sanctuary; a buoy in the relentlessly shifting tide of feelings, thoughts, and questions that had begun to rise the morning before and now, swollen to the breach by Remus' disturbing news, threatened to overwhelm him completely.

It was quiet in the wardrobe. A good kind of quiet, not the deafening silence that rang throughout the rest of the house, which was so oppressive it almost seemed sentient. Harry sometimes fancied the house watched him, waiting for moments like these when all his most painful memories had bee stirred to the surface, and the stillness could prove more dangerous than the most brutal legilimens attack. Here, however, among Sirius' things, the quiet was comforting.

Here, he could smell Sirius, all around him. Over two months of marinating in the stale air of Grimmauld Place had not purged Sirius' scent from his clothes. And Harry let that scent envelope him, relaxed into it with a sense of calm and security as if it were Sirius' embrace itself. Safe in his comfortable nest of cotton and denim and dragon hide, Harry let his mind play itself out. All those thoughts he could no longer keep at bay were allowed to race freely. 

How would this all end? How many more would be lost before it did? Was Dudley really gone? Was he truly free of Privet Drive, and must it have come at such a price? Was Snape right? Was Sirius' death really his fault?

It was this last question that seemed most pressing to Harry. He stared into the mirror, concentrating on the thin line of light from the crack at the bottom of the door which was reflected in his glasses and across the contour of his eyes, as it was really the only thing discernable in the darkness. The longer he stared at it, the less solidity those painful thoughts retained. They slowly lost form and dissolved into a general, wordless ache, and then a tingling numbness. Harry simply drifted on Sirius' scent, suspended in time, the light in the mirror his only anchor. The world beyond the wardrobe door seemed less and less like reality. 

In here, it was so easy to imagine Sirius still lived, that he was only just down the hall with Buckbeak. It was so easy to imagine this was not Grimmauld Place, just a place he shared with his godfather, the one he had always dreamed up while locked away at Privet Drive. There was no Dark Lord here. There was no Snape, no training, no threat. Here was _home_, and Harry was happy...

Happy. Harry then tried to recall if he had ever been _happy_: content and carefree. He wondered if he was even imagining it correctly, or it was possible to, having never known it, however much he had longed for it. Did his idea of happiness bear any resemblance to the reality of it? He wasn't sure. But he was certain he _had _never truly been happy. Each time he had come close it had been tainted by something...a sense of expectancy, a knowledge it wouldn't last. Nothing so wonderful as that could ever be allowed to happen to Harry Potter. 

He had always felt wary, threatened...preyed upon. Yes, that is exactly what Harry had always been, even at the Dursleys: prey. 

'Is that why I do what I do?,' he asked himself. Perhaps he was driven toward danger out of rebellion against that sense of helplessness, so that he could fool himself into believing he'd had some choice in the matter, and even if he was harmed by those who preyed upon him it would not be by their will alone. Master of his own destiny, wasn't that the expression? What a silly delusion. Hadn't one of his favourite excuses always been his faultless victimization? Who was he trying to fool with it anyway? Those who criticized him or himself? Perhaps the answer lay somewhere in between, a taste of it all together. 

The answer was there were no answers. Yet even as Harry pondered these possibilities, he felt hunted. Even as he sat locked in his sanctuary hiding from the outside world, doing nothing to provoke it, he felt it's threat. Someone somewhere sought him. Someone was drawing close. He could feel it like hot breath on the back of his neck. 

'Who are you?," Harry wondered dreamily to himself. 'Where are you?'

__

Where are you_? _

Was that his own voice? It seemed soothing, trustworthy. Maybe Phineas had been right. Maybe he was cracking up. Harry gave a short laugh.

'I'm in the closet.'

__

Where are _you, Harry?_

'I told you I'm in the...' Harry paused. Where was he? 

'I'm...I'm alone'

__

Are you hiding from something?

'I suppose I am.'

__

And what are you hiding from, Harry? Are you frightened of something?

'...Aren't I always?'

__

Oh? And what of that legendary Gryffindor bravery?

'Just because you're brave doesn't mean you can't be scared,' Harry reasoned calmly. 'It's not real courage if you aren't. It's stupidity, or folly...something like that. I think someone told me that once.'

__

Ah. How wise...and who told you these things?

'Does it even matter?'

__

Ha. I like your way of thinking...What are you scared of now, Harry?

Harry thought for a long time. '...Of being alone.'

__

Then why aren't you with the others?

'I'm even more afraid of being with them and still being alone, if that makes sense. And I'm afraid of the things they expect me to do that I can't do.'

__

You cannot_? And why is that? Do you know your weaknesses? Every man should. Tell them to me. What haunts you, Harry? What hurts you _most_?_

Harry was beginning to feel uncomfortable. 'He's...'

__

Yes?

'...He's...'

__

He's what? Who? Answer my questions, Harry.

Harry felt suddenly confined, trapped and suffocating.

__

Answer me. Tell me what you fear.

'No.'

__

...Harry-

'I said no.'

"Harry!"

"No!"

"No what? Harry?"

Harry was suddenly aware of Remus standing over him in the now open wardrobe doorway. Light poured in from behind him, blinding Harry who struggled to left a hand to shield himself from it as if from an imminent blow. 

"Gods! Harry, you're drenched. What's wrong? What's happened? How did you get here?" Remus asked in a desperate voice as he dropped to his knees beside Harry. Harry did not remember lying down, neither could he understand why he was sweating when the air seemed so chill on his still bare skin it practically stung him. His scar burned almost intolerably, the sudden brightness punctuating this pain. He had difficulty focusing on Remus and felt he was about to be ill. 

"I'm...I'm not sure," Harry said weakly. "I mean, I came in here to find a shirt. I just, I think I nodded off," he lied. As badly as he was hurting, Remus looked worried enough as it was. 

"We've been searching for you for hours," Remus told him, "since you missed your session with me. Snape is downstairs waiting to give you your Occlumency lesson. Dumbledore's there. He's frantic. _I _was frantic, we all were. What in _Merlin's name_..." Remus stopped and took a deep breath to calm himself. "Are you all right?," he asked more gently. "You look pale."

"I think I need to lie down," Harry said. With his arm hooked around Remus' neck they shuffled out of the wardrobe and over to Remus' bed where he lowered Harry onto his pillow and fussed over him, stoking back his sweat-soaked bangs and mopping his brow with his tattered coat sleeve. The pain in Harry's scar was staring to subside, and the room became clearer. As soon as Harry was settled and appeared to relax, Remus sat back and carefully placed his hands on his knees. 

"I need to tell the others I've found you," he said, but Harry halted him. 

"Not yet. Don't leave me alone just yet," he begged. Remus gave him a worried but indulgent look and settled back onto the bed. Having nothing better on hand , he reached over and stripped the case from his other pillow and, almost worshipfully, set to drying Harry's neck and chest. Harry lay motionless under Remus' ministrations, still not fully recovered from his episode in the wardrobe. Everything still felt a bit surreal, and he looked about him with thoughtful detachment. 

For some reason he only just noticed that Remus had taken over Sirius' old room. Everything was as Sirius left it, obviously even the wardrobe. Remus' own clothes, of which there were so few he perhaps didn't feel the need for a wardrobe of his own, were hung on the back of the chair at the writing desk in the corner. On the desktop there was a picture of the two, Sirius and Remus, good friends smiling fondly at each other and clasping arms, though their expressions were much less carefree and exuberant than in the photos in Harry's album. Over the desk hung the legendary Kreacher. He was missing an eye and most of one ear; his face was sullied by claw-like slashes yet looked more pleased than Harry ever remembered him being in life. 

__

It was the elf who told me--laughing fit to burst--where Sirius had gone. 

So the rumours were true. His quiet, unassuming new guardian had indeed slaughtered the thing and brought his head back as a trophy, hanging it in Sirius' room as if in offering. Harry turned his detached, unabashed stare to Remus who was still wiping sweat from him. Could this man who now touched him with such tenderness really have done such a thing? Remus looked weary and apprehensive, and Harry found he rather missed Remus' silent sureness, the serene confidence that once infused everything he did or said. What could have caused such a change in him? Harry had not given much thought to Remus Lupin before he'd come to Grimmauld Place that summer, he'd had no reason . But things had changed...so many things had changed. 

He found Remus intrigued him more and more. He was full of paradox, a deceptively simple enigma. Harry wondered how someone so obviously young could seem at the same time so very old. He was Dumbledore's exact opposite. Remus' face was lined with care, but was more handsome for it Harry thought. His eyes especially bore deep creases that, at the moment, looked as though they must be from kindness. His eyes were indeed gentle, but also piercing and wary, and ever slightly feral. Harry was warmed by Remus' light, attentive touches, yet shivered under them. Quite suddenly Harry was possessed of a desire to understand this man, to spend time with him, but not now out of pity or compassion. Remus had never posed such an enticing mystery as he did at that moment, and Harry wanted to know what went on behind those amber eyes. They seemed so wise, so honest. Harry wanted to see himself through them, as his own he considered too jaded to bear much truth. 

Remus noticed Harry's placid, half-lidded stare and grew more concerned. 

"I'm going to go and get the headmaster," he said, frowning, and rushed to do so. Harry watched him rise without a word. 

"Do you blame me?" he asked quietly before Remus could reach the door. Remus stopped mid-step and turned back to Harry with some measure of feigned confusion. 

"Harry," he said carefully, "I've said before, there's no way you could have known. No one believes your cousin's death was your fault."

"I didn't mean Dudley," Harry replied, propping himself up on his elbows, though he had a feeling Remus had understood to begin with. "I meant...do you blame me for Sirius? Do you think it was my fault he died? Do you think I killed him?"

Remus stared blankly at Harry for a moment, then took a shaky breath. "...Of course not," he said finally. "How could you think such a thing?" 

Harry would not be so easily placated. He didn't answer, only looked away, staring thoughtfully at the empty air before him. "You all blame me don't you."

Remus hesitated, debating whether to continue on his errand and let Dumbledore handle the situation or to return to Harry's side. Slowly, he drew back to the bed and looked down at Harry with an expression of deep distress. Absently he reached out and re-tucked a strand of damp hair that had fallen into Harry's eyes, causing Harry to look up at him and hold his reluctant gaze with one of unflinching resolve. 

"Is that what _you _believe, Harry?" Remus asked, shaking his head, his brow furrowed. "Do you really blame yourself?" Again, Harry did not answer the question put to him. 

"That doesn't matter. I want to know if _you _blame me."

Softly, "Harry, I said I didn't."

"That doesn't mean you don't," Harry replied in a hollow voice. "That doesn't mean anything at all, really." He could tell by the look in his eyes that he had wounded Remus with his statement, but he didn't relent. "If you don't blame me, why do you avoid me? Why won't you look me in the eye?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Remus replied with a nervous laugh. "I'm looking you in the eye now aren't I?" He wet his lips and began to shift uncomfortably. "I'm going to fetch someone. You aren't well."

Harry reached out and took hold of Remus' wrist to keep him there. Though he pulled against Harry's grasp firmly and steadily, Remus did not jerk away or try to wrench himself free. He looked suddenly frightened of Harry, and Harry could simply not understand why. 

Harry didn't understand his own actions either, or why he was saying such things. He'd never felt Sirius was the reason Remus was so distant, though the thought should have occurred to him before now. Still, even now he didn't feel that to be quite the truth. It seemed Harry had an ulterior motive that was unbeknownst to even himself. Yet he continued to ride this wave of impulse, still too numb to comprehend all that was happening, or to really care why. 

"Why did you flinch?" Harry went on. "You act like my touch hurts you."

"It does," Remus rasped breathlessly, surprising Harry. 

Harry swung his legs over the edge of the bed and rose to stand before Remus, allowing only enough room to accommodate the wrist he still held gripped between them. He looked searchingly deep into Remus' eyes. And Remus, though he stood in place, slowly began to lean away from Harry. 

"But why?" Harry asked in genuine and innocent confusion.

"Harry, this isn't the time for this," Remus tried to say sharply, but the quaver in his voice ruined his attempt to sound authoritative.

"When is?" Harry demanded. And why not? As far as Harry knew he didn't have much time left.

"Harry," Remus said, his composure rapidly crumbling, yet frozen in place by Harry's gaze. "I can't...You're...This is..._It's too soon_," he stammered. 

"Too soon for what?" Harry asked, desperate to understand. Remus wrist flexed under his fingers.

"Too soon after...after Sirius-"

"What does Sirius have to do with you and me?" Harry interrupted. "Because Sirius is dead I can't touch you? Because he's dead you can't look at me?"

"_Yes_." 

Harry grimaced at Remus, not comprehending, unaware he was tightening his grip on Remus' wrist. 

"Harry, you don't understand. I can't explain it. This is just...wrong," Remus said firmly.

"But why!" Harry cried, growing upset.

"I'm you're godfather, Harry-"

"_Sirius _was my godfather!" Harry said with vehemence he didn't understand.

"You're right! You're right...And I shouldn't be feeling....It's that _damned spell_," Remus growled. "This isn't right. You're still too young. It's too soon."

"What are you _talking _about!," Harry bellowed. 

"We were lovers, Harry!" 

Harry gaped at Remus, unconsciously releasing him, and Remus stumbled back away from him. 

"What?"

Remus reached behind him to grasp the desk for support. "Your godfather and I were lovers, Harry," he confessed, breathing as though he'd just run a mile. "And I feel I'm betraying him. I can't imagine what he would think of me if he were still alive." He lay his face in his hand. "You turned sixteen," he said as though this was supposed to explain things. "I just never thought it would ever effect _me_." Harry shook his head, he was so very confused. But just as Remus seemed about to elaborate, the bedroom door burst open.

"_Potter!_" Harry turned a dazed look to Snape, standing in the doorway and looking livid.

"Where in Hell have you _been?_" he snarled, bearing down on him. Harry opened and closed his mouth, looking at Snape as though he were some alien creature. 

"I found him in the wardrobe," Remus said now, rapidly composing himself. Harry could tell by the look in his eye as he glanced at him that he would never know what Remus had been about to say before Snape interrupted them. Harry could just strangle the sallow bastard. 

"The _wardrobe_?" Snape said, raising an eyebrow at Remus, then turning an ugly grimace of confusion to Harry. "You mean to tell me the entire Order was set on alarm because you left like playing _Hide. And. Seek_?!"

"Now, Severus," Remus threatened gently but firmly. But Snape only sneered at Harry, apparently too disgusted to insult him further. He looked at Remus.

"He's your bloody responsibility, Lupin," Snape said, speaking as though Harry were not even in the room, which irked Harry beyond words. "Can you not even keep up with him? Can you not impose some _discipline_?"

"Yes, Severus," Remus began, drawing himself up. Harry could detect a hint of the old sureness in his voice. "He is my responsibility...not yours. And as such I ask that you leave me to see to it. You're advice, though duly noted, is neither requested nor desired. However, if you'd like to feel useful, I suggest you go and inform Albus that Harry has been found and will be coming downstairs directly to explain himself."

Snape glared at Remus, but did not shoot back any snarky retort, which frankly shocked Harry. With a final disgusted glance, Snape muttered "We're all going to die," before he turned on his heels and disappeared, robes cracking behind him. Harry watched him go, still thunderstruck, then turned to Remus. But the man only regarded Harry for a moment, as with deep regret, and followed Snape out of the door, motioning for Harry to follow. 

*~*~*


	8. The Observed of All Observers

****

Chapter Eight: The Observed of All Observers

Harry could hear their voices from the third floor landing. Almost every member of the Order he knew of, as well as several others he'd never seen before, were gathered downstairs, spilling out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Harry doubted the house had been so busy, or so full, in decades. A collective cry of relief rose when Harry and Remus appeared coming down the last flight of stairs, and the news of his arrival was relayed loudly throughout the crown like a several-voiced echo sounding down the hall. 

Harry had never seen so many adoring, upturned faces and he paused on the third step to the last, amazed, feeling like a messiah surveying his disciples. With so many eyes upon him, Harry became keenly aware that he was, although he had just spent countless hours in a packed wardrobe, still not fully dressed. However, he was too caught off-guard by the few strange looks he was fetching, which went beyond happy relief to a kind of admiration (though Harry couldn't remember doing anything so very admirable) to feel entirely uncomfortable. Actually it was rather thrilling, a very new sensation. And one that was abruptly dampened when he caught sight of Snape's cool, critical stare from the shadows behind the open kitchen door. Snape's look made him feel naked, even more so than he actually was, and Harry suddenly recalled how chilly the air of the house was and shivered. 

Snape crossed his arms disdainfully, but the pale, stringy, blond witch beside him, who leaned in now to whisper in Snape's ear, did not appear nearly so disapproving. She stared openly at Harry and there was something a bit sly in her look. Harry passed his hand over his chest unconsciously, as though he could feel her eyes rake over him like feather tips. 

As Harry returned her gaze wonderingly, Dumbledore appeared striding swiftly to the fore. The crowd parted for him, apparently intuitively as all eyes were still locked on Harry. "Thank heavens," Harry heard him breath as he approached the foot of the stair.

Albus Dumbledore, the most powerful wizard in the world, gazed reverently up at Harry. All this did little to banish Harry's sense of unreality. He stared at the Headmaster as if he were an apparition, looked out at them all as though at a congregation of phantoms. 

"Harry," he heard Remus prompt him softly from somewhere beside him, lightly taking his elbow. Harry allowed himself to be lead to the kitchen, on Dumbledore's heels, eyes sweeping almost unseeing over the veritable sea of people through which he passed. They seemed slightly grotesque to him, like the smiling faces on funhouse walls. 

It seems the entire throng had emptied into the hallway upon Harry's arrival, with the exception of Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad-eye Moody, and Arthur Weasley, who were gathered at the far end of the table and almost tripped over themselves to greet him. Kingsley stood to the side and merely nodded smilingly at Harry, but Mr. Weasley rushed past the others to stand directly before him. 

"Good Lord," he sighed. "It's so good to see you're all right, Harry," he smiled, taking Harry by the shoulders and hastily inspecting him as if to assure himself Harry was indeed still in one piece. 

"Back away from the boy, Arthur. Give 'im some air," Mad-eye called gruffly from somewhere behind him, nonetheless clip-clomping over to station himself in the exact same position Mr. Weasley had just relinquished. Moody studied him distrustfully, prodding him here and there, and Harry threw him a disgruntled look and moved his arms to shield his ribs from further assault.

"Say," Moody called over his shoulder to the others. "Just how do we know this is the _real _Potter?...Looks a bit suspicious to me," he grunted under his breath, his magic eye sweeping up and down Harry while his normal one squinted Harry in the eye. "Thought he was scrawnier than this," he added with another prod. Harry's brow furrowed in offence. "And I never knew the boy to have a penchant for _nudity_. If you ask me, we should-"

"Oh _come off it_, Mad-eye," Tonks interrupted, elbowing the former auror aside. "Wotcher, Harry!" she grinned, hitting him playfully in the arm. "Gave us a run there. Where've you been hiding anyway?" Harry felt like objecting that he hadn't _been _hiding really, but that would have been something of a lie wouldn't it? Harry was a little overwhelmed by all this attention and wondered if the entire Order was going to paraded in front of him one by one to poke and shake him to their satisfaction. Thankfully, however, Dumbledore dismissed everyone before Harry could sustain any more bruises, requesting that only Remus and, most unfortunately, Snape remain behind. As the others filed out, throwing him happy waves, or in Moody's case suspicious glances, Harry was seized by Mrs. Weasley and almost forcibly seated at the table. 

"Now you be sure to drink this all down, Harry dear," she said, setting a cup of steaming tea before him. She felt of his brow and generally fretted over him (Dear gods, Albus, he's so very pale! And he's clammy all over. Just _feel _of his skin) before she too was ushered outside with the others. 

"I _cannot _understand this _commotion_," Snape snarled, huffily snatching up the teapot from the table in front of Harry and setting it, almost violently, on the counter. "He was in a _wardrobe _for crying-out-loud! You'd think he was snatched from the icy grips of Death _it-self_."

"Severus," Dumbledore said calmly, "We are all merely relieved to find he is indeed safe. We might easily have not been so fortunate." Snape rolled his eyes as if to say 'Oh, yes. He's alive. How _fortunate_.' "Let us not make too light of the situation until we've heard what Harry has to say." Snape snorted and stalked moodily to the darkest corner of the room, but Harry could still _feel _his glower, even if he could no longer see it. 

The tea did indeed help and Remus and Dumbledore sat patiently on either side of Harry as he finished it. When he had regained his bearings, Harry recounted, with many furtive glances at Remus (whom Harry thought appeared far too calm considering their recent encounter) all that had happened in the wardrobe. He wondered if Snape would be placated to hear why he was there for so long in the first place, or if he would be disgusted further. Dumbledore listened thoughtfully as Harry described the strange conversation with the intruding voice. Finally, Harry admitted the burning in his scar when he woke and was struck by a sharp pang of repentance seeing the shocked and dismayed expression this elicited from Remus. Surely if he'd know of it he'd never have allowed Harry to delay him on his way to alert Dumbledore. Though he felt slightly guilty about the omission, Harry couldn't say he quite regretted it. So many things seemed to click into place as a result of Remus' confession, even if it hadn't exactly gifted Harry with peace of mind. But with that admission, Harry concluded his narrative, feeling that what had transpired after between himself and Remus had no bearing on the pertinent situation and was no one's business but their own. 

The tale was short and surprisingly easy to share, yet all three men seemed deeply effected by it. Dumbledore leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands in his lap, lightly tapping the tips of his index fingers together as he thought. Harry knew that behind his placid expression the headmaster's mind was working furiously. Remus stared intently at his own hand lying before him on the table. Even Snape had been drawn from the shadows to fix Harry with a pensive, though otherwise innocuous, look. 

"Severus," Dumbledore said quietly, waking from his thoughts. It was all that needed to be said. Snape nodded once, curtly, and glided swiftly and soundlessly across the room toward some errand only fully understood by the two men. He slipped out of the door into the buzz of the hallway which momentarily aggravated the weighty stillness of the kitchen before Snape closed the door securely behind him again. The quiet made Harry anxious. Were they upset with him? They both looked so...sober. 

"Professor," he ventured softly, addressing Dumbledore, "I'm sorry...to have upset everyone." And Harry was sincerely contrite that so many obviously important people had dropped everything and rushed to this god forsaken house simply because he was meditating in a wardrobe. 

"Oh, do not apologize, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly. "I'm afraid all this commotion is my fault. We should have performed a more thorough search of the house. But you see, when you were not immediately found, it was rather hastily assumed you were no longer on the premises." This allayed Harry's guilt somewhat. "It is indeed understandable that you sought a moment of solitude," Dumbledore continued. "Remus' news was, no doubt, quite a shock to you. However, I ask that from now on you not wander off alone. In fact, I must insist that you be in the presence of another at all times, at least while you still remain here at Grimmauld Place." Great. Now they thought he needed a babysitter. 

"One of the reasons being," he went on, "is that your disappearance was not the only call for alarm tonight." Harry was a little shocked. In a way, he was relieved he had not been the sole cause of this mess, but at the same time had been a little intoxicated by the thought that he _might _have been, that _he _merited such a reaction. Snape's insistence that he was merely a prop had left him questioning his worth. 

"What's happened?" he asked, wondering if her really wanted to know. 

"The dementors have abandoned Azkaban," Dumbledore informed him plainly with no prelude. Harry grew wide-eyed. "I knew it was an eventuality, however I had hoped it would not come so soon. It appears Voldemort is growing in influence, and shall undoubtedly continue to do so, even without the aid of his most prized soldiers."

"Without his best soldiers?" Harry asked hopefully. "So the Death Eaters didn't escape with the dementors?"

"Well, it cannot be said that the dementors escaped, per se. The only thing holding them to Azkaban was the promise of a permanent supply of helpless subjects on which to feed. Apparently, Voldemort offered them something much more enticing. Mad or emotionally ruined prisoners are not nearly as appealing as fresh prey and fresh fear, with the freedom to kiss at will those unsuspecting victims of Voldemort's designs.

"But to answer your question, Harry. No. They did not escape. Not all of them. The ministry responded quickly and were able to rectify the situation somewhat. Dementors can be driven away with a patronus, but not necessarily contained. Unarmed wizards, on the other hand, are an entirely different matter." Harry wanted to ask, if not _all _the Death Eaters had escaped, then who exactly did? But what did it matter really? The only Death Eater Harry was concerned with was Bellatrix, and she hadn't been in Azkaban. 

"The situation was not nearly as dire as it could have been. However, coupled with your apparent disappearance, the Order was a bit anxious and rushed to the conclusion that something unfortunate might have happened to you, hence the gathering here tonight."

"But," Harry reasoned, hoping he didn't sound impertinent, "how could it? I mean, if you're the secret keeper, the house is totally safe isn't it?"

"Nowhere is _entirely _safe, Harry," Dumbledore gently corrected him. "I would think your recent experience in the wardrobe confirms that. There were several possibilities. One being you had been lured out of Grimmauld Place somehow. Unfortunately, there is no place we can be certain of your safety so long as Voldemort still has access to your mind."

Harry was a little insulted. He'd fallen for that ploy before, yes. But he wasn't stupid enough to let it happen a second time. "What could possibly have drawn me out," he asked testily, "when all I care about, all I have _left_, is right here?"

"We felt that may have been it exactly," Remus spoke up, for the first time since they had left his bedroom. Harry turned to him, nonplussed. The man had gone through an almost magical transformation. All signs of anxiety and timidity were utterly gone, and his gaze as he looked at Harry was strong and sure. Harry found this bothered him even more than Remus' previous demeanour. At least then he'd been acting sincerely. Now, Harry wasn't so sure. 

"Phineas overheard you this morning," Remus explained. Harry groaned. Maybe he should do to Phineas what Remus had done to Mrs. Black. "He said you told Ron this was your battle and yours alone, and that you were going to make sure you would never endanger your friends again."

"Well," Harry objected, "that's _quite _an exaggeration. All I said was-"

"It was feared that you might have set out alone, thinking that you would remove any danger to us by removing yourself," Remus cut in. Urgently, "Harry, I can't insist enough that you do not pose any threat to anyone here. I need you to understand that _everyone _involved with the Order is, and has always been, as well protected as is possible, and should something happen to any of us it is most assuredly _not _your fault in any way." Harry was taken aback and swallowed uncomfortably, knowing Remus was answering the question put to him by Harry earlier, one Harry felt wretched for asking in the first place, now that his fey mood had worn off. "If ever something unfortunate does happen," Remus continued adamantly, "_circumstance_, Harry, circumstance brought about by Voldemort, is the only thing that is to blame."

Harry genuinely appreciated this reassurance and nodded his understanding, chest burning and eyes stinging. Remus blinked back a tear of his own and clasped Harry's shoulder, with no reluctance at the contact whatsoever, and squeezed it firmly. Though he still rather suspected it's sincerity, Harry found himself very grateful for Remus' show of confidence, for he found he relied on it much more than he had realized. 

"Yeah, I know," Harry said. And he had all along really, he now realized. "I know I wouldn't stand a chance against Voldemort by myself. I know if I ever left here on my own I'd only be captured and...." _And I know you'd come to rescue me like last time, and that would only put you in more danger. _But Harry couldn't bring himself to voice this. Remus and the Headmaster glanced at one another. 

"To be honest, Harry," Dumbledore said confidentially, "When you were not found, capture was not our primary concern." Harry looked between the two, puzzled. 

"Harry," Remus said gently, picking up where Dumbledore left off, "I want you to promise me that you will never do anything to harm yourself." For the umpteenth time that night, Harry was shocked. 

"Harm myself?"

"If you ever feel...despondent, if you ever feel overwhelmed by everything that is happening, I want you to come to one of us so we can talk things through. I apologize for my recent behaviour, but I want you to know I'm always here for you should you need me....As is Albus."

"Never think you are alone in this, Harry," Dumbledore confided. "Never think there is no where to turn. Understand, we still hold the advantage. There is always cause for hope."

"We care about you very much, Harry," Remus said now, "And we don't want to see you hurting, no matter the nature of that hurt, physical or emotional."

Harry was overcome, and for a while couldn't speak. He'd never considered hurting himself. Did he really give off the impression that he might? 

"So," he managed to force passed the knot in his throat. "You don't think I'm just ...a prop? I'm more than just bait to you, and you aren't just keeping me alive for the sake of the mission?" It was an almost cruel thing to say, but he hadn't been able to help himself. He _needed _to hear Snape's taunts contradicted. 

"Do try to have some patience with Professor Snape," Dumbledore begged gently. Harry gawked at him. How did he know those were Snape's sentiments? "We all sometimes say things, in the heat of the moment, that perhaps we do not mean." Harry had a hard time believing Snape hadn't meant every hissed syllable. "Trust your own heart," Dumbledore continued as if in answer to that thought. "If you know in your heart something is true, or untrue, then there is nothing anyone can say to you to hurt you in that way."

Harry knew in his heart _that _was not entirely true, though he understood Dumbledore's meaning. Harry nodded and sighed shakily. "You don't have to worry about me," he said, smiling weakly. "I'd never do anything to...hurt myself. Not intentionally....I'm not that selfish," he added. _Despite what Snape might insist. _

Harry thought this statement might have relieved the two, but they simply nodded their appreciation, still looking rather tense. 

"It's good to hear you say that, Harry," Remus said. "As there's something I've been waiting to tell you, because I was worried about how you might handle it." Harry's small smile faded and his heart skipped a beat. He didn't like the sound of this at all. What could conceivably be the matter now? He was fast running out of possible tragedies. Harry's warm fuzzy feeling was rapidly ebbing away, replaced by an increasing dread. 

"At first, I hadn't wanted to ruin your birthday," Remus explained hesitantly. "And at the time we weren't sure of all the implications. We wanted to wait until the situation was fully resolved. Afterward, well, I felt you had a enough to consider. When you weren't found for our session, I thought, perhaps, I'd made a mistake in that, that the news, should it have come from someone else, someone you weren't close to, might be enough to...nudge you over the edge." Harry was _certain _he wouldn't like what Remus was about to say, though wished he would just out with it already. He began to shift in his chair restlessly, looking to Remus to continue, but it was Dumbledore who spoke.

"As you might recall, Harry, when you arrived I asked if anything had happened that you wanted to share." Harry nodded. " My reason was, shortly before your arrival, your owl Hedwig appeared at the front steps."

"Hedwig?" Harry asked quickly. "I've not seen her for days. I was beginning to worry. Has she been here the whole time? Where is she, can I see her?" Harry was babbling, he knew it. He was trying to ignore the gnawing sense that he already knew the answers to these questions. Remus winced slightly.

"When she arrived she was very badly injured," he explained. "She had no wounds, but several broken bones. Her wings were unharmed, which was undoubtedly no mere stroke of luck. Still, it was a miracle she made it here at all."

"S-she's alright...isn't she?" Harry stuttered, panic rising in his voice. He suddenly had a hard time drawing breath. "You helped. You fixed her. She's _okay_!" he said loudly, as if his insistence could make it so. The two of them only looked at Harry remorsefully. 

"I am sorry, Harry," Dumbledore said sadly. Harry began shaking his head.

"Understand, we did all we could," Remus averred. 

No. No, this wasn't supposed to happen. They'd _had _their sappy, touching moment. Things were _supposed _to be okay now, damn it. They were all supposed to smile and hug and go to bed feeling all warm and happy, with a sense that everything had been resolved. This wasn't right! This was against the damned _rules_! 

Harry grimaced and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He didn't feel like crying really. He just...God, he didn't even know what he felt like doing. Maybe laughing; long and hard and joylessly. He even began to. Remus touched his arm consolingly. Did he think those were sobs?

"As I said, we weren't sure of the implications. When you didn't arrive right away, but Hedwig did, and in such a state, we worried she wasn't the only owl accosted and that the portkey had been found. We didn't even consider that any of the other packages might have been tampered with. After you finally appeared, but said you sensed nothing out of the ordinary, we thought perhaps she had been injured after leaving Privet Drive. It was only some time later, when the Ministry was alerted to your cousin's death that we were able to put everything together."

Harry lowered his hand and looked blankly at Remus. Was he saying Dudley's death could have been avoided? But Harry didn't care about this explanation. He didn't care about Dudley, or the Ministry, or the other owls. Harry looked about him, helplessly, seeing nothing at all. 

"I ignored her," he said in a dead voice. "She tried to tell me something was wrong. She clicked her beak and made a fuss...But I just thought she wanted attention. I thought...." He trailed off. Remus reached out to consol him again.

"Harry-"

"Don't _touch _me!" Harry snapped, rising to his feet and away from Remus so quickly it toppled his chair. He took a deep breath, and slightly more civilly said, "Please. Not right now. Don't touch me." Harry suddenly felt so very tired. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to see these people. He didn't want to talk. For a moment he considered how ironic that was, seeing as an hour ago he was heartbroken that Remus wouldn't touch or look at him. Now, all he wanted was to be left alone by him. 

"I didn't say a _word _to her," Harry went on, growing extremely angry. Whether at the situation or just himself, he wasn't entirely sure. "I watched her fly away and I was _glad _about it! Because I was feeling sulky and I didn't want to be _bothered_," he spat. _I'm not that selfish, am I? Lord, I am full of crap. _

Dumbledore looked deeply concerned and rose from his chair to approach Harry. Despite himself, Harry couldn't bring himself to be as waspish to Dumbledore as he had been to Remus. He didn't say a word, only fumed as the Headmaster stroked his back comfortingly, as though literally working to the surface all those emotions Harry was trying so desperately to repress. Damn the man! Harry didn't want to be sad. He wanted to be angry! It felt so good being angry, and was so accustomed to it by now. 

"It's all right, Harry," Dumbledore whispered consentingly. "There's nothing shameful about what you're feeling. Cry if you want. It's perfectly natural."

"No," Harry tried to refuse, but it came out more as a whine and a tear was already sliding down his cheek, as if to spite him. "I _don't _want to. I'm. I'm not a child," he insisted, lip quivering.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Remus asked, rising himself now. Harry looked up at him through his lashes as if the answer should be obvious. Grown men don't cry over losing their pets. 

"It wasn't like she w-was my family or anything. Or my best f-friend," he hiccupped. 

"What difference does that make?" Remus replied with a gentle scowl, laying his hand on Harry's shoulder again, and this time Harry allowed it. "The point is you cared about her."

"It takes courage to feel, Harry," Dumbledore said, drawing Harry's attention so that he looked him in the eye. "It takes a stronger man to confront his feelings and allow them to run their natural course than it does one to hide from them and deny they exist. It takes a _wiser _man to cry. Never fear your feelings, Harry. Your capacity to feel is your greatest strength and, in his inability to, Voldemort's greatest weakness. Remember that." 

Dumbledore's gaze was so steady, his words so sure, that for a moment Harry was tempted to believe him, decided to pretend for that moment that he truly did. Because, now that the flood had begun, Harry couldn't stop it. He turned to look at Remus' kind, encouraging face through his film of tears, and his lip was still quivering, still stubbornly trying to hold back the deluge. But when Remus opened his arms beckoningly, Harry's last resistance crumbled and he fell into them, tugging at Remus' lapel. His knees gave way and he ended up dragging Remus to the floor with him, and Remus stroked his hair soothingly as Harry cried on his shoulder; releasing the tears so very long denied: for Cedric, for Sirius, for Hedwig, and for himself. He abandoned himself to them and a part him wondered why he had ever sworn off this wonderful catharsis. Maybe when he was spent he would remember, but at the moment his previous logic escaped him. Right now, it didn't matter...nothing did, except that he not stop. 

*~*~*


	9. T'have Seen What I Have Seen

****

Chapter Nine: T'have Seen What I've Seen; See What I See

It was late when Harry finally pulled himself from Remus' lap, limbs stiff and heavy, feeling as though he were a marble statue suddenly gifted with the power of movement. He was sad to have to do so. Remus' embrace was warm and comforting, like a breeze on the face of a weary traveler that carries on it the scent of home...and there in Remus' arms the concept of home didn't seem any more imaginary or impossible than it had in Sirius' wardrobe. For a while, Harry had forgotten where he ended and Remus began, he was so completely at ease. But as soon as he began to draw away, Harry felt the cool air rush in between them like a cruel knife cutting them again into two separate beings. Remus looked as exhausted as Harry felt, but Harry could see in his eyes he would have willingly sit there until morning with Harry if he though t that was what he needed. And though that thought had tempted Harry, he decided it wouldn't have been fair to Remus. They'd sat there for far too long already, ever since Harry's tears had been spent and he was so weak because of it he could not even will himself to hold his uncomfortable weight off of his guardian, (though the consideration had occurred to him) and they would both pay for the embrace come morning. Harry was already feeling the promise of it. His afterglow of catharsis, that weightless indifference to the sensory that comes from such intense purgation, was fading and he was finally becoming aware of the bruises on his knees and shins screaming for relief from the hardness of the floor and his awkward position. He could only imagine what Remus must be feeling. 

Slowly, the two unwound themselves from each other but, before they rose, Remus took Harry's face in his hands and searched his eyes as though asking him if he was certain he was ready to part. Harry lay his hand lightly over Remus' and gave him a small, consenting smile, and Remus nodded. In that way, without necessity of words, they bid each other goodnight. Harry shuffled from the kitchen, glancing back at Remus as he passed through the door. And that image Harry hoped to carry with him always, to ever after be the one his memory offered up when he thought of the man. Remus stood like a sentinel, as venerable and weathered and patient and indestructible as the walls of Hogwarts itself, and now was every bit the symbol of sanctuary that old castle had always represented for Harry. With a last, grateful smile, Harry turned from him and slipped into the hallway. 

The hall had been long deserted, though Harry could hear stirring in many other parts of the house near at hand, and by the time he had reached the stair, a few wizards Harry did not know appeared a ways from him, immerging out of one darkened doorway to cross the hall into another. When they caught sight of Harry they froze, whispered conversation dying on their lips, and they smiled at him in that inane, almost unconscious way people do when looking on something they revere, as though the thing is somehow endeared to them through their own respect for it. Harry sighed and shook his head, turning to ignore them and continue up the stairs...but something made him pause. When he glanced back down the hall he noticed the gathering had all scurried on, save one. A stringy witch with pale hair and eyes was still staring at him, the same one who had whispered to Snape. The one with the look that tickled. Harry noticed she had not smiled with the others. Although he sensed no animosity in her, her blatant attention still unnerved him. Harry gave her a crooked smile and continued up the stairs, not waiting for her response. 

When he reached his room, Harry eased the door open and found Hermione asleep in Ron's bed, fully clothed and loosely covered with a blanket. Ron himself was slouched in the chair by the bureau, curled in a sheet. Harry wondered how long they had waited for him before finally succumbing to exhaustion. It was touching to have friends so devoted. But at the same time, their loyalty unsettled Harry. He knew that, because of it, he was indeed a danger to them, despite what Remus had insisted. Either of them would throw themselves in harm's way at a moment's notice for his sake...just as Sirius had.

Harry shook his head and pushed the thought aside. It was too late and he was too tired for anymore of its kind this night. He'd worry on it tomorrow. Right now, all he wanted was to undress and slip beneath his own sheets, which he did. But sleep did not come easily, even now. Or rather, Harry still fought it, wondering what might happen if he dared. He tossed and turned for several minutes. Despite his cleansing moment with Remus, Harry could not shake his sense of foreboding. He still felt...watched. Harry opened his eyes with a snap.

Ron was awake and staring at him. Harry sighed his relief. 

"All right there, Harry?" Ron whispered, casting a quick glance at Hermione to be sure he hadn't disturbed her. Harry gave him a weak smile and only nodded. Ron nodded as well. "Dumbledore came up and told us you were okay."

"Then why'd you ask?" Harry whispered back, but playfully, in no way biting. Ron shrugged.

"S'pose I just wanted to hear it from you. You don't always tell them everything, y'know...So you are really all right aren't you?," he asked again with a note of worry. 

"Ron. I'm fine," Harry assured him. There was a long silence, and Harry just almost nodded off.

"I heard about Hedwig. And your cousin," Ron said suddenly, jolting Harry from his doze. But Harry didn't know how to respond to that...so he just didn't. "I thought that was why you'd disappeared," Ron went on, but he was no longer looking at Harry. "I thought you went to find the ones who'd done it. I thought you went off and left me behind." He paused, then added, "You can't do that you know. Promise you won't go after them without me." Harry knew he could never, would never, promise anything like that. He pretended to be asleep, keeping his eyes open only enough to see Ron's blurry form through his lashes. When he wasn't answered Ron looked over and sighed, and Harry thanked his lucky stars his friend was so gullible. 

"You can't let them get you, Harry," Ron said now as though he knew Harry couldn't hear him or else wouldn't have spoken. "You're my Best Mate. Don't know what I'd do without you."

__

You'd do just fine, Harry thought. _Probably be better off_. 

"If they ever hurt you. If they _ever_...." Ron hissed softly. "I'd kill them. I just would," he finished plainly and resolutely. Harry really did close his eyes at that, and swallowed a worried sigh. Ron watched Harry 'sleep' for a while longer, then adjusted himself in his chair and went to sleep himself. 

Unfortunately, Harry would not be able to do the same for some time. As much as he hated to admit it, Snape had been right. And Harry resolved never again to share with his friends all that happened to him or that he discovered...because no matter what he tried to say or do to dissuade them, should they know of Harry's danger, nothing would stop them from involving themselves in it. Harry didn't have a choice, he had to face these perils. But he'd be damned if he'd drag his best friends into them with him. 

__

Let them keep their lives, he reasoned, _their homes and families...their innocence_. At last, Harry felt he was indeed the best suited for his destined role, but not because of some prophecy or latent power. Unlike his friends, Harry had nothing to lose. 


	10. I Was the More Deceived

****

Chapter Ten: I Was the More Deceived 

Despite Ron's disturbing, one-sided conversation the night before, Harry woke the next day surprisingly refreshed, and perhaps all the more determined because of it. His foreboding he now accepted as a condition of life, but otherwise he felt cleansed and capable of tackling any task they set before him. He was allowed to sleep in again, but when he finally rose sometime around noon he was fed and immediately sent to work. And he was more than ready. 

McGonagall turned up that afternoon to begin her series of lessons with Harry. She was adequately impressed by his newfound fervour, and informed him that she expected it to carry over into her classroom when term started. She began by teaching him how to transfigure knives, arrows, swords, and other 'common' weapons into things like feather dusters and silk pillows. Harry didn't do too terribly bad. But his silk came out more like burlap, and his feather dusters...well, they had a lot of work to do. All the transformations were done on stationary objects. The trick, she said, was performing them while the weapons were being hurled at Harry with deadly force. Harry did not look forward to those practices. 

That day he also finally began his sessions with Remus. Though Harry thought it may have been awkward after all that had passed between them recently, he found himself very pleasantly surprised. Harry was really very comfortable with Remus, and the feeling appeared to be mutual. Remus' attitude was light and friendly and his lesson on part humans was every bit as enjoyable as his Defence Against the Dark Arts lessons had been those years before at Hogwarts. Harry was fascinated by the subject and they studied everything from the diet of hags and the mating habits of banshees, to the evolution of Warlocks from antiquity to present day. 

"There was an excellent text here in the library on the traits and lifestyles of vampires," Remus frowned looking through the stack of books from which he wanted Harry to study. "Do ask Hermione to share it with you," he said with a knowing wink. 

Their session lasted a full two hours longer than anticipated, and might have stretched on longer had not Dumbledore arrived to give Harry his Occlumency lesson (acting as temporary substitute until Snape returned) at which time, much to Harry's disappointment, it had to be called to an end. Snape's only offer of guidance to Dumbledore was to inform Harry that: despite what he had said before meditation would not be necessary and Harry should cease immediately (assuming he ever began). Though his lesson with the Headmaster was considerably less nerve-wracking than it might have been with Snape, and though Harry _certainly _didn't miss the man's company, Harry began to understand Snape and Dumbledore's point about the effectiveness of their respective teachings. Dumbledore was patient and took a moment to outline the theory behind the magic being used in hopes it would help Harry better understand and so better combat it. But to be quite honest it was mostly over Harry's head, and he would have much rather had his wand out, as he seemed to learn more easily from a more practical, hands-on approach. All in all, Harry felt there was little accomplished during the lesson, and grudgingly conceded to himself that perhaps Snape _was _his only hope of mastering this all-important skill. 

Harry continued this routine for the next week, alternating between McGonagall, Flitwick, Remus, the headmaster, and even occasionally Hagrid. Because of his hectic schedule, Harry saw little of Ron and Hermione. In a way, this relieved him. When he did see them he was, of course, polite and friendly, but his topics of conversation were frivolous and content light. A chasm was slowly growing between him and his friends. And though it pained him somewhat, he really thought it was for the best and did little to mend the rift. As far was Harry was concerned, the less they had to do with him, the better for them. Hermione, as intuitive as always, seemed to understand Harry's distance and respected it. But Harry could tell it was taking it's toll on Ron. Sure he and Hermione had a blossoming relationship to see to (the depth and nature of which Harry was still not entirely certain) but Harry knew it couldn't substitute a best friend. Hermione wasn't exactly keen on Quidditch, or Fred and George's latest products, or any of the myriad of other things boy their age took interest in. Harry could just imagine Ron sitting alone in their room while Hermione busied herself in the library or chatted with Ginny, bouncing a quaffle off the far wall and telling Pigwidgeon (when he could steel him from his little sister) all about the Cannons' new Chaser. Phineas, should he not be sleeping through it all, probably knew more about that team and the game of Quidditch itself than he could ever care to know. Harry kept telling himself it was all for the best and avoided Ron's lonely, hopeful glances when they met in the halls or at meals. Ron wouldn't be able to understand it, but Harry cared about him far too much to be his friend just now. 

A week before term was to begin, Remus and Mrs. Weasley stormed Diagon Alley, fetching all four of them their school things and Harry all the necessities, including, most importantly, many new clothes. It wasn't that Mrs. Weasley had _bad _taste per se, just conservative taste...not a boy's taste. She did, however, have an eye for colour and coordination. With Remus input into the selection, Harry found himself in possession of a very decent wardrobe. He now had several pair of nice trousers and fetching jumpers that complimented his complexion and build better than he could have imagined. Having always worn either Dudley's hand-me-downs or else a few hastily and thoughtlessly purchased outfits, Harry never knew how much difference the right colour and cut could make in one's appearance. He also had a number of comfortable t-shirts bearing Quidditch references or the names of popular wizarding bands he wasn't familiar with. (Though Tonks assured him they were all very savvy.) The least welcome of his new acquisitions was Archimedes, the large, handsome tawny owl Remus had chosen for him. He was a fine bird, but Harry felt there could simply be no replacement for his beloved Hedwig. 

As the term inched closer, Harry's schedule relaxed a bit as the professors were distracted by preparations at Hogwarts. Harry continued his studies independently, seeing his instructors whenever they were available. It was a lazy Tuesday evening when Harry found himself in the upstairs bedroom which had unofficially been designated as his private classroom, waiting for Dumbledore who was, uncharacteristically, quite late. Harry had spent over an hour there, idly tracing the fading patterns on the wallpaper and nosing under sheets and in cabinets. Finally he stationed himself at the window, peeking out of the dusty drapes, and watched as the day crawled sluggishly to hide behind the horizon. As the last speck of the sun's neon disk blinked out of view, Harry's mind turned to dinner and bed. But even as he resolved to give the lesson amiss and head downstairs, Harry felt a subtle draft stir the still, stale air, and he made to pull the curtains closed before turning toward the door to greet the Headmaster. Harry barely heard the whispered spell that sent him crashing to his knees and plunged him into a spiral of sharp images. 

__

Privet Drive on Dudley's sixth birthday when Harry had been given rice crackers instead of cake; his rotund cousin cackling through his icing at Harry's longing expression

Resting against a stall in Myrtle's bathroom, watching the dust drifting in swirls through the rays of sunlight through the window like the doubts that swam through his mind, while Hermione brewed Polyjuice within.

Hagrid showing them how to feed flobberworms.

His first glimpse of Snape , glowering at him from the staff table during the sorting his first year at Hogwarts, not understanding the stranger's dislike yet feeling a mutual distaste rising in him as well. 

Harry woke on the floor, curtains pulled down in a heap atop him, pain shooting through his knees and up his legs where he had struck the floorboards. The first thing he was able to focus on as he rolled his aching head to the side was a pair of immaculate, pointed-toe, black boots clicking to a halt only a few feet from him. Harry followed the slender, black-clad legs upward until his eyes came to rest on Professor Snape's familiar, snide expression. Harry groaned . The man had been gone so long he had almost forgotten how much he loathed him. 

"I see you have learned precious little in my absence," Snape said, looking down his hawkish nose at him. "Not that I had hoped for much else."

Harry scowled at him and pushed himself shakily to his throbbing knees. "That wasn't fair," he complained to the buttons on Snape's waistcoat. "You didn't even give me a chance to-"

"Am I mistaken, or did the word _fair _just pass your lips?" Snape snorted, making no move to help Harry to his feet. "You, of all people, should know that fairness is a farcical concept best reserved for fairytales and children's stories. We live in the real world, Mr. Potter. _Legilimens_." Harry was still teetering on one knee, midway through his struggle to a standing position, when he was sent crashing back to the floor. 

__

Aunt Marge floating near the ceiling.

Winky in the Top Box at the Quidditch World Cup.

Draco as a ferret. 

"Damn it!" Harry grimaced, rolling to his back, pain shooting through his elbow and side as well now. 

"Do you think the _Dark Lord _is going to be so gracious as to allow you to draw your wand or even gain your bearings if he can prevent it?" Snape said nastily. "Get up!" he barked, pulling his wand back and drawing breath to cast the spell again. Harry plunged his hand into his robes and withdrew his own wand, casting a disarming spell before the word could pass Snape's lips. He'd been tempted to use something nastier. About half a dozen good jinxes came to mind. _Merlin's beard _but Snape had come back in a foul mood. 

Snape gave a kind of growl low in his throat. "_That's _more like it," he snarled, his harsh tone belying the praising words. As he stalked over to retrieve his wand, Harry scrambled to his feet, wand prone on the stooped Potions Master. But Snape only straightened and stared daggers at Harry as he brushed the grey dirt from his new trousers and righted his clothes, running his free hand through his hair to remove it from his eyes. Both of them were breathing heavily, as if meaning to blast their animosity toward the other with each exhalation. Though Snape's wand lay slack in the hand at his side, Harry refused to relax his guard. 

"Was that _really _necessary?" Harry asked sharply. 

"You think it wasn't?" Snape replied, lips tensing to near invisibility. "The Dark Lord is plotting your demise, traipsing through your thoughts and memories like a housewife _doing the daily shop_, and you think my teaching is _unnecessary_?" he hissed. 

"I didn't mean the Occlumency! I meant you sneaking up on me when you know I'm not advanced enough to defend myself," Harry snapped angrily. "And stop making it sound like I've sent Voldemort an invitation or something."

"Your refusal to cooperate with me is just as good _as _an invitation to the Dark Lord."

"Who says I'm not cooperating!" Harry objected, growing increasingly aggravated. "_Listen, _just because you're in a shitty mood after visiting with Lord Thingy doesn't mean-"

"**_What _**did-you-just-say?" Snape hissed, hand tightening on his wand until his knuckles whitened, eyes glinting dangerously. Harry closed his mouth with a snap. What had he said? He was so irritated at Snape the words just tumbled out. Shite. This was bad and Harry knew it. He started to stammer some weak apology when he felt the spell, whatever it was, strike him in the chest like a fist, knocking his backwards and stealing the breath from him. He blinked up at Snape, unable to speak and so waving his hands in a silent plea for ceasefire. 

"I have _warned _you before not to treat mention of the Dark Lord with such disrespect!" Snape spat, leaning down over Harry. "Do you think this is a _game_?" he demanded, taking Harry's shirtfront in his fist. "Do you think we're simply playing _tag _with the most powerful and _ruthless _dark wizard to ever walk the _earth_? You _naive_, impervious little...." Snape literally bit his tongue, desperately trying to reign in his self-control. "Do you have _any _idea what he wants to _do _to you?"

"_Yeah_," Harry sputtered, finally finding his breath. As if he hadn't faced down Voldemort several times already, hadn't narrowly escaped death at his hands before. "I thought the idea was to _kill _me. Though it looks like you're trying to beat him to it," he shot, looking down at his own collar bunched in Snape's iron grip. Snape gave him a particularly cold, ugly sneer and released him abruptly, flinging Harry away from him so that the back of Harry's head struck the floor. He straightened slowly and brushed the front of his robes. 

"You should be so _lucky_," he spat. 

Harry rubbed at his neck where his collar had chaffed him and propped himself on one elbow. "Look," he said. "I'm sorry for calling him that, all right?...Professor Snape?"

This seemed to placate Snape somewhat. He swept his eyes coolly over Harry's sprawled form before commanding him calmly and sneeringly to, "Get up..._Mr. Potter_." With a fair amount of relief, and a tad of inner grumbling, Harry did as he was told. Snape waited until he was standing to continue. 

"Prepare yourself," he told him, raising his wand.

"But...I've lost my wand," Harry said with a note of panic, eyeing Snape's and taking a small tentative step away from it. 

"And just what good do you think it would do you?" Snape asked as though wearied by Harry's simplicity. Harry's eyebrows knit and his bottom lip pouted in distress. 

"If you don't think I can do this," he complained, "Then why are we even bothering with-"

"You misunderstand my point," Snape drawled, casting Harry a withered look. "You are not preparing yourself against me. Ideally, you are preparing yourself against the Dark Lord. The attack will be internal, your wand will be of no use to you . You must learn to rely on the strength of your mind alone to repel the attack."

"B-but you told me not to meditate," Harry argued. "I haven't been. So, I can't fight it without-"

"I know perfectly well what I told you. And I know perfectly well what I am doing. I'm the Master here remember? Now prepare yourself," he said, wand already rising.

"No wait!" Harry cried, but it was too late.

__

The reptile house at the London Zoo.

Cho sitting across from him beyond a veil of raining, pink, heart-shaped confetti.

His parents smiling at him from within the Mirror of Erised.

"Fight it!" Snape shouted. "Now. _Again_!"

Remus sleeping on the Hogwarts express.

Cedric's shade asking him to return his body to Hogwarts.

"Damn it, Potter. What did I tell you!" Snape growled angrily. Harry gazed up at him from the floor, eyed glazed, desperate and dreading. "Again! Fight it."

"I can't!" Harry cried as Snape's wand cut through the air to cast again. Snape halted.

"You _won't_. You must try," he said, preparing to continue through with the spell. 

"No! I _can't_!" Harry wailed. "Stop it! This...this is pointless!" he shouted in frustration. "I can't _do _this," he repeated despairingly to himself, rolling to his stomach to hide his face in his arms. 

"...Get up," Snape said firmly.

"No."

"_Excuse _me?" Snape said, eyebrows rising incredulously.

"I _told _you. I can't do this!" Harry whined, not looking at Snape, not wanting to see the abusive smirk there. But it was true. Harry couldn't do this. He _wouldn't_. He wouldn't tolerate this anymore.

"So," Snape scoffed, "_This _is the rose and expectancy of the fair state. The boy who aspired to train a juvenile army to do battle with the Dark Lord himself cannot even manage elementary Occlumency," he said with cold, jeering condescension. "That your godfather was the _only _one lost during that little crusade of yours is indeed most fortunate."

Gods! Must he insist on turning the knife? Harry already felt wretched allowing Snape to see him like this. Did Harry look like he need to be further wounded? What a _git_. 

"You _would _consider Sirius dying fortunate," Harry spat venomously, peeking from the fold of his arm to glower at Snape. His despair was once again bubbling into a low fury. Snape only arched an eyebrow and sucked his tongue, perhaps thinking it unwise to out and out confirm the indictment. 

"...You're enjoying this aren't you?" Harry said in a low voice, fixing him with a searing, suspicious look.

"Enjoying _what _exactly?" Snape said. 

"Torturing me," Harry said, convinced of it now. Snape crossed his arms and rolled his eyes as if Harry's melodrama was causing him a headache. 

"Circumstance requires that you learn this skill, and apparently _I _am the only one qualified to see that you do so. I didn't exactly volunteer for this nightmarish undertaking with bubbling enthusiasm. I assure you that in no part of this arrangement do I find enjoyment, Mr. Potter." But Harry pushed himself to a sitting position and gave Snape a look that said he knew better and was indignant that Snape would so insult his intelligence. 

"Why won't you just admit it?" he challenged. "You're still bitter about what Sirius and my father did to you, but since they aren't around anymore you're taking it out on me. Admit it...You hated them."

"You can hardly blame me," Snape said strainedly through pursed lips. "You were in the pensieve." Snape's features darkened as anger at the memory of Harry's trespass washed over him afresh. "You witnessed their _cruelty_."

"But _I _didn't do those things to you!" Harry shouted belligerently, leaning forward and placing a hand on his breast to punctuate the statement. "_I've _never done anything to you. Why? Why do you hate me?" he cried, desperation and a genuine desire to understand infecting the frustration in his voice. "Why have you _always _hated me?" Harry's voice broke on those last words, but his gaze remained true. Snape's gaze was steady as well, and as cold and hard as stone in winter. After a silence so long Harry despaired of a response, Snape answered him, his voice as stiff as his posture. 

"It's true, Mr. Potter. I hated Black, and I _loathed _your father." Harry was slightly taken aback. Though he knew it to be true already, that knowledge did little to blunt the shock of hearing it spoken. But Snape wasn't finished. Harry straightened and regarded him uncertainly "It's also true that I hate what I see of your father in you...which is far too much I might add. And I hate the dangerous influence that inheritance has had...I hate many things, Mr. Potter," Snape went on. "I hate continuously risking my life for an ungrateful whelp of a boy without the sense not to be shepherded, almost wistfully, into one _blatant _trap after another. I _hate _knowing that this behaviour is the result of the way you have been alternately sheltered or else left completely to your own devices your entire life with grossly impractical proportion and timing...I hate fate. And necessity. I hate circumstance...But no. I do not hate you, Mr. Potter," Snape finished plainly. Harry looked up at Snape's severe expression, at a lose for words. Snape heaved a sigh and shifted as though irritated. 

"Well," he said shortly, "I feel that is enough for one night. It's already quite late and I believe you have a train to catch in the morning. We shall continue this when you arrive at Hogwarts." Harry opened his mouth to object that he wasn't finished talking about this, but Snape was already passing through the door, leaving so swiftly and silently he may as well not even have been corporeal. Harry remained in the floor, tucking his knees under his chin and hugging his legs. He sat there for some time, toying with the hem of the fallen drapes, pondering what Snape had just said and what exactly it might mean. 

~*~*~


	11. When Sorrows Come They Come Not Single S

****

Chapter Eleven: When Sorrows Come They Come Not Single Spies

Mrs. Weasley woke them quite early the next day, popping in and out all morning in her usual imminent-departure induced frenzy, depositing the wash and reminding them to pack this or that. Harry and Ron loaded their trunks in near silence, always narrowly missing each others wistful glances. 

Harry had trouble focusing on the task at hand. He desperately wanted to talk about what Snape had said the evening before. It bothered him far more than he thought it might. It should have been a relief shouldn't it? Snape didn't hate him after all. But Snape hating him (and him hating Snape) made things so simple. It was something he'd always taken for granted. Sure, Harry no longer had to worry about potential sabotage or Snape betraying him to the enemy. But still, now Harry could no longer comprehend the man's behaviour toward him. When you cancelled out that element, it just didn't make sense. This uncertainty Harry found to be even more unnerving than the thought that Snape's abuse was motivated my dislike. Besides, Harry was so comfortable not trusting the skulking, greasy Potions Master. (When in doubt, blame Snape.) Now Harry felt an obnoxious compulsion to look deeper, to try and _understand _the intolerable git. 

As close as he now felt to Remus, Harry didn't feel this was the kind of thing he could share with him. After all, Remus had, by his passivity, contributed to the conflict between Snape, Sirius, and his father. There was also a chance his guardian might confront Snape. And Harry certainly didn't want _that _to happen. Occlumency lessons would only become even more hellish. 

What Harry needed was someone who would not judge or lecture him. What Harry needed was a best friend. Harry looked sheepishly over at Ron whose back was turned, adjusting the contents of his trunk. This wasn't, after all, information that could endanger him in any way...and besides, Harry dearly missed Ron. However, Ron seemed to have finally accepted his and Harry's estrangement, and it didn't seem right to Harry to launch into his doubts and theories as if nothing was different between them. Perhaps, when they were settled on the train, Harry would try to break the ice. 

An hour before they were to be on the platform, Harry and Ron hauled their trunks downstairs. Though neither of them spoke, Harry thought he could tell that Ron was just as excited as he was to finally be allowed to set foot outside of Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Weasley had a spot of breakfast waiting for them, but Harry still had to grab Archimedes, having been unable to handle his trunk and his new pet's cage both at once. Telling Ron he'd meet him in the kitchen, Harry bounded back up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he topped the last flight and swung himself by the banister to turn into his room. In doing so he almost collided with Remus who was standing at Harry's bedroom door as though he meant to knock. 

"Harry," he said sunnily. "There you are. I was just looking for you."

"I was on my way to breakfast," Harry explained, eager to get to it. "I've just come to fetch Archimedes." 

"Ah," Remus said, placing a hand on the small of Harry's back to lead him back down the stairs. "Don't worry. I'll be bringing your things separately, and I promise not to forget him." Harry was a little apprehensive. The last time he'd left his things behind he'd never seen them again. 

"Our things aren't going on the train?" Harry asked. 

"Well, _yours _aren't," Remus explained. 

"Am _I _not going on the train?" Harry asked, growing confused. 

"Oh yes, _you _will, of course. But we're hoping to keep up the pretence that you are not. At least until we get you there and on your way," Remus said, pausing on the final landing. There he took in hand a bundle he'd had tucked under his arm which Harry had not previously noticed. "You'll be wearing this on the way to the platform," he said, handing the neatly folded square of silvery fabric to Harry. "...It was Sirius'. He'd left it to me, because at the time he knew you already had your father's. However, since that one has been lost, I'm sure Sirius would rather this come to you," he said solemnly. 

Harry took the invisibility cloak from him and it unfolded in his hand. Though the fabric was, of course, so sheer and delicate it seemed spun from the very air itself, the garment weighed unusually heavy in Harry's hand. He watched it slide through his fingers like liquid silver, but it's beauty was not Harry's concern. 

Why hadn't it occurred to him before? Of course his father's cloak had been destroyed with the rest of his belongings. Harry's stomach gave a lurch as he realized his photo album must have been lost as well. The _only _things he had to remember his parents by were gone forever. And all Harry had been concerned about was his Firebolt. Guilt curdled in the pit of Harry's gut. 

"I want you to keep this on until you are seated and the train gets going, alright?" Remus asked, waking Harry from these thoughts. Harry nodded mutely, casting his eyes back down at the cloak. Remus lay a hand on his shoulder and nodded, then disappeared to continue his preparations. 

Harry shuffled to the kitchen, too morose to join in the other's excited chatter. Mrs. Weasley set a plate before him, but Harry ended up only pushing his food around it, having no appetite now, even for Mrs. Weasley's cooking. When it was time to set out, the students were corralled into the anteroom where they shuffled anxiously flanked by Tonks and Mrs. Weasley while Remus stepped outside to be sure the coast was clear. 

"Alright," he said, ducking back in. "We're ready. The ministry has a car waiting for us a block up. Harry, under your cloak please." Harry complied, pulling it tightly around him and then slipping to the end of the queue to stand by Ron. "No one is to talk to Harry or acknowledge his presence, understood? Harry, the same goes for you to the others, no talking." 

"That shouldn't be hard," Harry heard Ron mumble under his breath beside him, still looking at the empty space at the front of the room where Harry had disappeared under the cloak. "We're to carry on as usual then?" Harry's heart sank even lower. Ron must have been taking his distance far worse than he had thought. It was now apparent that he hadn't accepted the situation at all, but had only become too bitter about it to try and remedy it any longer. Harry studied him from behind the shelter of his cloak, having the freedom to do so without necessity of tact or pretence. Ron looked, well, angry. His features formed the slightest of scowls, and the restlessness Harry had guessed to be anticipation he now recognized to be the result of discontent. 

"Ready?" Remus called, hand on the door knob. "Right. Let's go." 

Harry might have thought he'd have felt liberated, strolling down the street after so many long days locked within the murky confines of Grimmauld Place. But the air was unusually chill for the time of year, harsh and uninviting. Cold wind blasted him as if determined to strip the cloak from him, and the sunlight was too stark and intense for his unaccustomed eyes. 

The car was indeed waiting for them, and Harry was the first one in. Remus opened the door for him under the pretence of depositing Pigwidgeon in the back seat while the others fussed with stowing their luggage in the trunk. Ron scooted in next, but when his legs bumped into Harry's, he inched back away from him unnecessarily far, as if Harry was something caustic to the touch. 

Only Remus and Tonks actually accompanied them to the station, leaving Mrs. Weasley waving on the sidewalk. The girls chattered the whole way, but Ron only sat and smiled on cue whenever Hermione turned to him. Harry was rather glad he was forbidden to fraternize. He'd be afraid of what he might say. The ride was short, but Harry stewed the whole time, growing more irritated by Ron's attitude toward the situation the longer he thought about it. Wasn't Harry entitled to some time to himself after all that had happened? Did Ron expect him to put off any of his many, important lessons just to chat with him about bludgers and dungbombs? So Harry didn't share _everything _with Ron anymore. So he didn't spend every spare minute with him. Could Ron not understand how stressful the last weeks had been for Harry? Harry mulled, but tried to keep his indignance to a minimum. After all, he _hadn't _been fair to Ron lately, and it had been intentional. He'd just have to try and explain this to him is all. 

When they reached the platform everyone said their goodbyes, ignoring Harry of course. He didn't think this would bother him. But as he looked at Remus, noting the kind crinkles at his eyes as he smiled at Ginny, the ones he'd come especially to delight in, he couldn't quite bear the thought of leaving this man he'd come to be so close to without some sort of farewell, despite that he would likely be seeing him in only a few days. Though he knew he wasn't supposed to, Harry slipped over to Remus and reached out to squeeze, firmly and affectionately, the hand hanging at Remus' side. Remus gave the slightest startled gasp, but otherwise did an admirable job of hiding his surprise and, no doubt, his disapproval. 

"Goodbye, Remus," Harry said, tip-toeing to whisper softly right into Remus ear so no one else might hear, "I'll see you soon." Remus swallowed hard and smiled at Hermione. 

"Take care," he said warmly in her direction, but Harry knew Remus was speaking to him. 

As soon as they boarded, Ginny was dragged off by a gaggle of giggling friends and would not be seen again for quite some time. Harry followed Ron and Hermione down the corridors, narrowly missing collision with several students bounding up and down the train who, of course, couldn't give him room to pass as they, of course, didn't know he was even there. Hermione finally chose a compartment near the end of the train, and Harry was relieved to duck inside. 

"Finally," Harry muttered, ready to be free of the cloak.

"Shh. Not yet. Not until we leave the station," Hermione reminded him quietly through the side of her mouth as she stowed her things in the overhead compartment. Harry sighed, none too quietly, and plopped into a seat. Hermione took a seat across from him, and Ron the one beside her. He scooted in close and tried to take her hand , but Hermione blushed and cast a slightly embarrassed glance toward where she guessed Harry to be sitting. "_Ron_" she whispered, carefully pulling her hand back into her own lap. Ron looked wounded by the rejection and cast his own, grumpy glance in Harry's direction. He crossed his arms and looked out the window while Hermione adjusted her robes and pretended not to notice his mood. The exchange rather worried Harry for some reason, and he gave Ron a sympathetic look. One he wished his friend could see. 

Several people popped by. Dean and Seamus, Parvati, Ernie Macmillan, actually almost every member of DA with the exception of Cho and the traitorous Marietta. They all gave the same greeting of, "Hey Ron. Hey Hermione. Hey..." then searched the compartment, noting but not commenting on Harry's 'absence' before looking to Hermione (who looked so uncharacteristically nervous Harry thought she might give them away.) But she successfully shooed them off before any questions could be asked. Harry couldn't tell if their expressions exuded relief or disquiet. 

The warning whistle finally sounded, and moments later Luna Lovegood appeared looking, as usual, as though sedated. She first drifted all the way passed the compartment. But before they could even utter a sigh of relief she reappeared, back-pedalling so it looked as though she were on a conveyor belt. Her wide, unblinking eyes were prone on Hermione, who bit her lip anxiously. 

"Yes. It is you," Luna said in a sing-song voice, apparently answering her own unspoken question as she slid open the door and entered. 

"Oh. Hello, Luna," Hermione said politely. But Luna didn't seem to hear her. She was rotating like an item on a turnstile in a window shop display, searching the cabin. 

"Harry isn't here," she said, stating the 'obvious'. 

"Oh! Um...You know, I haven't seen him," Hermione stuttered nervously. "I suppose he's running late," she lied. Just then the train gave a groan and started moving. 

"Hmm," Luna said, "he's missed the train. How unfortunate," she added, teetering as the train swayed, almost sitting right on top of Harry. Hermione gasped and thrust out a hand to seize Luna by her robes and right her as Harry shrank to the corner of his seat. When the threat had passed, Luna looked down at Hermione's hand still clutching her robes and raised her eyebrows at her.

"Right," Hermione said, smoothing them. "My. It looks as though he has missed the train."

"I got your owl," Luna said now as though Hermione had just mentioned it. Hermione grew wide-eyed and quickly scanned Harry's side of the compartment, biting her lips and subtly shaking her head at Luna. Luna, however, continued undaunted.

"But I don't know how we can continue without Harry. Who will teach us? Books _are_, of course, wonderful things," she said with true Ravenclaw rapture at their mention. "But have you actually worked any of the spells? I'm apprehensive personally."

"_Luna_," Hermione said loudly, "The train's moving. Don't you think, perhaps, you should get settled into your own carriage?" she hinted with tact only Hermione could muster in a situation like this. 

"Oh, I had thought of sitting with Cho. She's a bit lonely now you know, all that mess with Marietta. They don't get on well now at all. But Cho is rather too silly for a Ravenclaw if you ask me. And there's so much room here. Yes. I think I'll sit with you," she said as though she had been invited, bending to once more practically sit in Harry's lap. 

"No offence, _Luna_," Ron cut with lack of tact only _he _could muster. "But there's a _reason _there's so much room." Luna froze mid-squat and looked at Ron as though she couldn't possibly comprehend what that reason was. Hermione scowled at Ron but did nothing to quiet him. 

"We were wanting a bit of privacy. You know, just me and Hermione." Playing along, Hermione reached over and twined her fingers in Ron's, giving Luna an apologetic smile. Ron threw Hermione a quick, sideways glance as if to say 'Oh, _now _you want to hold my hand.'

Luna looked from Ron to Hermione to their clasped hands and comprehension dawned. A very wide smile drifted across her face, and she straightened and grinned goofily at them for a moment, head tilted like an inquiring cocker spaniel. 

"How charming," she said. "And here I thought, from what Padma's been hearing from Parvati all these years, that Hermione would be with Harry." Harry raised an eyebrow from behind his cloak and looked at Hermione. Ron's brow furrowed and he gave her a demanding look. Hermione herself looked as though she wanted to crawl under her seat. "Yes. You'd be much better suited for him than Cho. Though, personally, I don't understand what all the fuss is about. He's famous and everything, but well, you know.

"But _you _two do make a nice couple as well," she went on. "The unlikely ones are always the most endearing. Which reminds me. Did you know the Queen is secretly seeing a part-yeti? They rendezvous somewhere in Belgium. Someone caught the most darling pictures. Father's running the story in next month's issue," Luna informed them, tilting her head to the other side now. Ron glared at her, and Harry noticed he was clutching Hermione's hand almost painfully tight.

"I'll not spoil it though. The story that is. But I'll make sure you get a copy, Hermione. Well. Goodbye," she said and drifted off, still smiling dreamily, sliding the door to behind her. As soon as she was out of sight Harry ripped off his cloak.

"She got your _owl_?" Harry demanded before Ron could set in. Hermione was very flustered and looked from Ron's hard expression to Harry's and back again, unsure what to say to either. Ron released her hand as if dropping an oozing bubotuber pod. 

"Hermione," Harry scolded, "Dumbledore said there were to be no more DA meetings." Ron then turned his sour expression on Harry.

"Yes. Well, I know," Hermione said, nose scrunched contritely. "But we were doing so well. And now that V-Voldemort is back. I thought it wouldn't hurt-"

"But Dumbledore's forbidden it," Harry insisted.

"Like you're one to talk," Ron interjected. "It isn't like something being against the rules has ever stopped _you _before." Harry looked at Ron, upset but trying not to become angry. 

"But this is different," he said.

"Why? Because it isn't _you _breaking the rules this time?"

"We aren't sneaking about behind Umbridge anymore," Harry argued shortly. "_Because _Voldemort's back, we need to listen to Dumbledore. I'm sure he has a very good reason for not wanting us to hold DA meetings anymore."

"So we aren't allowed to defend ourselves, is that it? You'll do that for us I suppose?"

Harry bit his tongue and Ron glared. Hermione looked thoroughly guilty. This was the kind of lecture she usually gave Harry, not the other way around. 

"Listen," Harry said finally. "I can't stop you. Just don't expect me to help, okay?"

They sat in silence for a long time as the open country streamed passed the window . As the day wore on they had a few visitors, the first accompanied by Ginny ("Oh _there _you are, Harry!" _Wink_) who stopped for a short while and after which almost fully half the occupants of the train felt compelled to pass by the compartment, ogling them through the glass, as if to confirm the gossip for themselves. 

The witch with the candy trolley came by in the early afternoon and Hermione generously sprang for them all Pumpkin Juice, Cauldron Cakes, and Chocolate Frogs. Harry, who had skipped breakfast, devoured his the instant Hermione set them in his hands, thanking her profusely and so loosening the tension between them considerably. The two chatted idly for the next few hours, with a handful of terse contributions from Ron. 

The dark came early as the gloomy clouds moved in to choke the last hour of light from the setting sun. Rain drizzled down in a sporadic, uneven rhythm against their window. Ron was looking much less sour, and even almost smiled at Harry when he asked if he might swipe Ron's last, neglected Chocolate Frog, uttering a decidedly non-hostile 'Naw, I've already two of her' when Harry offered him Matilda Munkshank's card from within it. The lights came up and Hermione pulled a book from the overhead.

"That reminds me," Harry said. "I'm to get a book from you. _'The Vampire's Companion'_ or something. Remus wanted me to read it." Hermione blushed.

"It's in my trunk," she confessed. "I'll get it for you when we arrive...So, how _are _the lessons coming along?" Hermione asked tentatively. "Or can you say?" she added quickly. Heretofore they had only talked about innocuous things like the ridiculousness of _the Quibbler _(despite it's usefulness the previous year) and the coming year's course study. But Harry knew she had been dying to venture into the this topic for hours now, and to tell the truth, he'd been waiting hopefully for it.

"Not too bad actually," he told her. "Remus is teaching me loads of interesting stuff...Like, did you know banshees only mate once in their entire lifetime?" 

"Must be why they're always in a foul mood," Ron quipped. Everyone gave an amused snort. "What about Occlumency? You and Snape haven't killed each other yet I see," Ron said, but almost as though he regretted the fact. Whether because it meant he still had to put with Snape or with Harry, Harry couldn't quite tell. 

"Yeah. That's probably just because I've only seen him a couple of times," Harry said, relieved they were on the subject of the Potions Master. "He's just come back last night."

"Come back from where?" Ron asked as though he couldn't care less and was only being conversational. Actually, Harry was pretty curious about that himself. 

"Not sure," he admitted. "To meet with the Death Eaters I suppose."

"Hmm," Ron replied perfunctorily. 

"I think he had a bad time of it. That or he'd been storing up his nastiness for when he got back," Harry grumbled. "He was in an awful mood. But. Well, it wasn't all just insults," he said, trying to work his way toward Snape's confession. "I don't know. He said some pretty...confusing things. About what he thinks of me." Hermione looked intrigued. But Ron woke from his window gazing and rolled his eyes at Harry.

"About _you_?" Harry nodded. "It's always about you isn't it?" Ron grumbled under his breath. Harry was a bit hurt by that, but wasn't given a chance to respond. 

"Said some things to upset you did he?" Ron asked. That was the invitation Harry had been waiting for all day, but by Ron's tone he wasn't sure he should answer. But Ron looked to be waiting for his response.

"Er...yeah. It bothered me quite a bit actually." Hermione was begging with her eyes for him to elaborate. Ron snorted.

"And I suppose now you want to talk about it?" he said tartly. Harry pouted his lip at him in distress. 

"Well-" he began.

"You wanna tell me all about it so I can slap you on the back and tell you Snape's a git and not to worry about it, is that it?" Ron said snippily. Harry didn't answer, just set his jaw and scowled at Ron. Hermione looked anxious. 

"_Now _you want me to be your _friend_?" Ron demanded, growing louder with every word and sitting forward in his seat. "What about the last few _weeks_? You didn't need me then did you?"

"Ron-" Harry started crossly. 

"Well what if _I _needed _you_? Did you think about that? Oh, but that's different I suppose. _I'm _not important like you. I'm not 'Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived To Be Too Good For His Friends'!" Harry wondered just how long Ron had been waiting to deliver that line, and how many times he had rehearsed it.

"Ron, you don't understand," Harry argued, trying to keep his voice even. 

"Oh I think I understand just fine. All I ever hear is 'Harry this' and 'Harry that'. Everyone is _always _so concerned about _Harry_...Even my own girlfriend," he spat. Hermione looked extremely troubled. 

"Now, Ron," she half chided, half whined, but was ignored.

"...So I'm sure you're used to everyone falling all over themselves to listen to your little problems. Well, not me. Not anymore. _Real _friends make time for each _other_." Harry was really angry now despite himself.

"_Little Problems?_" he shouted. "You think having a bloodthirsty madman, intent on _killing _me, in my _head _is a _little problem_? You think being expected to save the whole _bloody _world from him is a _LITTLE PROBLEM_!?" Ron rose to his feet and so did Harry. 

"Well, I might not, but I really don't _know _what your problems are anymore, as you've _ignored _me for the last **_three weeks_**!"

"I'm trying to tell you _now_, you prat!" Harry yelled, his face was only inches from Ron's. "I was _trying _to **protect **you!"

"Oh. I see. Your secrets are just too big and important for invisible ickle Ronnie to handle, _eh_?" Harry balled his fists, Ron reached for his wand. 

"Ron! Harry!" Hermione shouted at them finally, trying to get between them. But she had barely risen from her seat when the lights flickered and all three of them were knocked from their feet. With the squealing of brakes their only warning, they were thrown to the front of the compartment, pressed painfully into bottom of the seats. The train shuddered and the lights went out completely. Bags and bobbles rained down on them from the overhead. Harry groped in the darkness to find a hold on something, anything, to steady himself as the shifting force of the halting train tossed them about like rag dolls. 

Finally, with a thump and a last high-pitched squeak of the brakes, the train was completely stopped. Harry struggled to sit up amid the things strewn about the carriage floor. The door had been knocked open and beyond it Harry could hear grunts and moans from the other occupants, but otherwise there was no sound other than the slap of rain on the glass.

"Ron! Hermione! Are you okay?" Harry asked, standing shakily. He heard a groan somewhere to his right and stooped to help Ron to his feet. 

"My wand," Ron said, panicked. "I've lost it. I can't _see _anything." To his left he heard Hermione whisper a spell and the tip of her own wand ignited with a meagre light. She held it above her head to better illuminate the compartment, and Harry could see her wary face quite clearly. There was a gash over her temple oozing blood that, in the blue glow of her wand looked black and was running quickly down her face. 

"Bloody hell, Hermione," Harry muttered, lifting his hand to dab the trickling stuff with his shirt sleeve, but was distracted. Just then a flash, as if from a bolt of green lightening, flickered outside. Harry spun around and quickly scaled the debris to reach the window. 

The Dark Mark hovered menacingly over a copse of trees not twenty feet from the train. Harry stared at the ominous signal, mouth agape, and staggered back from the window. He stumbled on Hermione's book bag and would have fallen had not Ron caught his arm and righted him, afterward patting him supportively on the shoulder. Hermione clung to Ron, wand still aloft, and the two of them looked almost like corpses in the mixture of blue and green light. A slow chorus of wails and gasps swelled from other parts of the carriage as the others caught sight of the dreaded omen. 

"Harry...is it?" Hermione asked, unwilling to approach the window to see for herself. Ron was wide-eyed and silent. Harry only swallowed and nodded. No one seemed to want to move. Suddenly the wails and desperate weeping from down the corridor were punctuated by a sharper, more immediate expression of fear as a shrill scream rent the air. Reflexively Harry grabbed his wand and made for the door to see what was the matter. But he found his question answered before he even reached the threshold. 

The air grew suddenly chill, as though he'd been plunged into icy water, and the pale green glow from the mark was slowly consumed by an almost material darkness. 

"Dementors!" he shouted to Ron and Hermione, immediately vaulting himself out of the door. But he had only taken a few steps when pandemonium erupted in the narrow corridor. Frantic children spilled from their compartments to escape their windows and the sinister sign beyond them, only to stumble across a small army of dementors which was pouring into the carriage. Screams erupted on every side of him, and Harry spun about, unsure what to do or where to begin. The dementors were sweeping about, excited to frenzy by the sheer terror that hovered thick in the air. They scurried here and there, unsure, perhaps, which scrambling child looked the most enticing. Harry swished his wand in no particular direction, as it didn't matter really, the dementors were everywhere. 

"_Expecto Patronum_!" he shouted, the only happy thought he required was to remedy this catastrophe. A silver stag erupted from his wand and passed right through the crowd of students, chasing away the darkness as it charged toward the closest dementor. It was stooped over a small first year girl, frozen in her terror as the thing bent to deliver it's deadly kiss, but when the stag approached it instantly dropped her and fled, taking with it two more dementors in it path. But there were others down the opposite end of the passage, and more coming in all the time...more in other cars. Harry began to panic. How on _earth _would he drive them all away before someone got hurt? 

Just as these desperate thoughts took hold of him, Harry heard Hermione utter the saving spell from somewhere behind him. Her shimmering otter gambolled down the walkway, evacuating three more dementors. 

"Go!" she cried, turning to direct the creature toward a fourth dementor trying to slip into a compartment at the other end of the carriage. Harry didn't need to be told twice. He fought his way through the press of frightened students toward other parts of the train. Throwing open the door to the adjoining car, wand raised and ready, he only narrowly avoided being trampled by a dementor that was trying to escape the large, shimmering swan flapping and nipping at its heels. Thunderstruck, Harry looked up to see Cho, clutching her wand and looking more fierce and determined than he ever though her soft, gentle features would allow. She was back to back with Terry Boot who was at that moment producing a shiny eagle of his own. Harry was momentarily paralysed by the pride he felt at that sight. He, Harry, had taught them this, and it may very well be saving lives. 

"We've got this carriage, Harry!" Terry called to him when he spied Harry standing in the passage. "Go see to the others." Harry nodded, possessed of a new sense of hope and determination. He fought his way all the way up the train, finding DA members throughout, even those who hadn't quite mastered the spell when last he'd seen them attempt it, leaping into action. They gave him nods and thumbs up and ushered him further on. Harry cast here and there, once narrowly saving Justin Finch-Fletchley as a dementor crept up on him as he sent his patronus in the opposite direction to flush out a small group of its companions. But other than that, there was little for Harry to do. Dumbledore's Army rose to the challenge brilliantly. _His _army rose to the challenge, and Harry almost wished Snape was there just so he could point to his classmates and say, smugly, that he might not be a master of Occlumency, but when it came to more practical defence, he obviously was no novice. 

Harry worked his way back down the train, checking in with DA members as he went, though most were now simply consoling scared youngsters. 

"Through there, Harry," Lee informed him urgently from where he knelt stroking the back of a crying second year boy. "I think I saw one slip into the next carriage." Harry nodded and went to investigate. When he passed through into the car's corridor he became immediately apprehensive. The car was practically deserted and the silence there was not of a dementor's making. As he crept through it, Harry thought he could hear muffled crying in the last compartment, and he bounded down the corridor toward it. 

Harry slid back the door and at first thought he had been mistaken and that the compartment was empty, but his eyes finally came to rest on a huddled figure in the shadowy corner. Draco Malfoy was curled in the floor hugging his folded legs to his chest, his face buried in his knees. 

"_Malfoy_?"

Malfoy's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at Harry, clearly put out that Harry had seen him in his present state. 

"Why don't you just go the hell away, Potter?" he said, voice too weary to carry its usual venom, and swiped furiously at his tear soaked eyes. 

"The dementor!" Harry demanded urgently, "Where's it gone?"

"Dementor? What dementor?" Draco asked, looking suddenly fearful and drawing himself quickly to his feet. Harry looked at him as though he was daft.

"The dementor that's roaming this bloody carriage, you _prat_!" Harry wanted to say. Why on earth else would Malfoy be so upset? Before the question could pass his lips, however, an agonized scream carried from a nearby carriage, causing Harry's breath to freeze in his chest. 

Harry recognized it, even though he'd never actually heard it before. His heart hammering, Harry forgot all about Malfoy and dashed toward the source of the scream. But as quickly as he knew he must be running, it felt as though he were moving in slow motion. It seemed like the air had congealed and Harry couldn't fight his way through it quickly enough, couldn't breath it in. 

Finally, Harry reached his own carriage. A group of people was gathered outside his, Ron, and Hermione's compartment, all simply standing and staring mutely through the open door. They seemed to sense Harry's arrival and those closest to him turned and gave him distressed, pitying looks. When he approached they parted for him, silently, and allowed him to pass. In his heart Harry already knew exactly what he would see when he reached the door, but nothing could have prepared him for the actual shock of it.

Hermione knelt in the floor, wailing loudly and rocking back and forth, a still, sprawled figure cradled in her arms. Harry swallowed hard and, as if by some volition other than his own, moved closer to look at Ron's face. 

He was pale as death itself, and his head was hanging back over Hermione's arm, his eyes half-lidded and rolled back in his head, his mouth hanging slack. He was completely motionless except for the small, quick, automatic intake of breath that sounded like tiny gasps and caused him to appear as though he were twitching mildly. Harry couldn't do anything but stare. 

"Oh _Harry_!" Hermione wailed when she caught sight of him in the doorway. Harry had never seen her so devastated. She moaned and clutched at Ron's jumper as if she simply couldn't hold him to her tight enough. Slowly, Harry's shock bleed away and he began trembling violently. 

"...Ron?" he whispered, as though hoping against hope his friend might hear him and wake from his stupor. "Ron!" he repeated, diving to his knees beside them, seizing Ron's shirt front in both his fists and shaking him firmly. "**_RON!!_**"

Ron's head only bobbed and lolled to the side, saliva pouring from the corner of his mouth. "_Harry_!" Hermione gasped at him, wide-eyed and horrified, laying one hand restrainingly on Harry's forearm and with the other reclaiming their unconscious friend. Harry released Ron and sat back on his feet, unable to tear his eyes from Ron's blank face. 

"I-I," Hermione hiccupped. "I o-only turned for a moment!" Slowly, Harry turned his gaze to her, amazed that she was able to even speak, her features were so constricted by anguish. "H-he'd lost his wand...I s-should have been more _careful_. I just. I only turned for a _moment_!" she sobbed.

As he watched her smoothing back Ron's hair from his face, her tears falling on Ron's cheeks, Harry went numb...He was only vaguely aware that he was rising to his feet, that he was stumbling backwards out of the compartment and into the crown outside it. They closed in around him and Harry slowly turned to look at them. On all sides there were faces, barely visible in the dim light. Weeping faces, frightened faces, sad, sympathetic faces...all turned to him...all waiting, it seemed, for what he would do next. 

The scene lost all semblance of reality. This wasn't real...This wasn't _real_. This was a nightmare. This...this was Hell. 

Harry had to leave, he had to get away from these dour visages, had to get away from the sound of Hermione's crying. He plunged clumsily through the gathering and into the open corridor. He couldn't breath. The walls were shrinking in around him. Harry rushed for the exit as though his very life depended on it and forced open the door. He stumbled and fell from the step onto the wet, though still painfully hard, ground below. His knees ached where he had landed on them...but he could not even find the will to rise to his feet.

How was it the open air still felt so _close_? Other than that quandary Harry's mind was blank. It simply no longer functioned. He glanced up and fixed his gaze on the fading Mark, still hanging like a luminous, pale green wisp of cloud overhead. Slowly...it dimmed, and blinked from view entirely. Harry's blood seemed to freeze in his veins, and somewhere far off he heard a woman screaming, pleading...but it wasn't Hermione. 

A pale, withered face drifted into Harry's line of vision. It was shadowed by an immense black hood, but Harry could still distinguish the perfect O formed by its cracked, white lips. In Harry's head, his mother began to scream louder...someone gave a high-pitched cackle of a laugh. Harry still held his wand, but couldn't seem to find the strength to lift it. 

'So this was the last thing Ron ever saw,' he thought to himself as cold hands took hold of either side of his face. 

"Expect...ex-expecto...," he mumbled half-heartedly. But it was no use. He knew it. And at that moment, Harry accepted it. Even if he could utter the words the spell would fail.

Harry had no happy thoughts.


	12. I'll No More On't, It Hath Made Me Mad

****

Chapter Twelve: I'll No More On't, It Hath Made Me Mad

Harry closed his eyes. He would just let this happen...There was nothing he could do to prevent it. 

That fact seemed to absolve him, allowed Harry to concede with clear conscience that perhaps he even wanted this in a way. Through no weakness of character, no failing of his own, he was being set free from the endless pressures and expectations that came with simply being who he was. But even as the thought of death grew more and more seductive, Harry felt the icy hands release him. He opened his eyes. 

The dementor was shrinking away from him. Harry was slightly disappointed, and more than slightly confused, but just then a great, glimmering, gryphon patronus swooped down soundlessly from overhead, back claws splayed, wings beating in slow, powerful grace. For a moment, Harry forgot the immensity of his situation and was simply awestruck. The mythical beast was immediately followed by a very large, shining bat and a spider, resembling a gigantic, luminous, albino Black Widow, scurrying along beneath. As Harry watched the three drive the dementor, flailing, out of sight, a hand seized him from behind and jerked him roughly to his feet, at the same time turning him to face his assailant. 

"_What _in _bloody _hell is **_wrong _**with you?!" Snape demanded harshly, nonetheless holding Harry at arm's length and frantically inspecting him for injury. "Were you just going to sit there, _wand-in-hand_, and let the accursed thing _kiss _you?" he asked, taking Harry's face roughly in hand to examine his eyes and colouring. 

Harry, still numb, did not answer. He only stared at the Potions Master, seeing him in a new light since the night before. There was the usual anger and disgust, but also distress and, in some small amount, concern in the man's expression. Harry didn't know what to make of it, and so filed it away in his memory, incapable of analysing it at the moment. Snape, quite confident Harry still possessed his soul, gave a small, satisfied snort. But before he looked away, his eyes, quite on accident, were caught by Harry's. Snape was suddenly very still, completely frozen in place but for the subtle shadow of inquiry that drifted across his features. Neither blinked. It was one of the eeriest experiences of Harry's young life, exchanging a gaze with Snape which wasn't filled with anger or hatred or any kind of animosity. 

"Severus," Harry heard Dumbledore call from the darkness behind Snape, jolting the man to his senses. Realizing he still cupped Harry's chin in the palm of his hand, Snape jerked his hand away as though the contact stung him. He gave Harry one, last, uncertain look before stepping aside to reveal the Headmaster. He was approaching quickly...more quickly than one might have guessed a man of his age was capable, and he was accompanied by the wiry, blond witch Harry recognized from Grimmauld Place. 

"He appears to be intact," Snape reported stiffly, taking another small, uncomfortable step away from Harry. Dumbledore heaved a sigh of relief and placed a heavy hand on Harry's shoulder. 

"Excellent...though it hardly surprises me," he smiled. Harry thought Dumbledore might burst if he appeared any more proud of him, and it made Harry slightly angry for some reason. "Professor Cobbleshot has informed me of the marvellous way in which you and your friends have defended the others during the attack," he gushed. "I can't tell you-"

"Ron," Harry interrupted in a dull voice, his eyes trailing away from the Headmaster's. How could Dumbledore be so cheerful when Ron...He must not know. But didn't Dumbledore know everything? Harry _needed _to tell him. But he couldn't find the words, or rather, he couldn't speak them. Dumbledore's smile disappeared and he sobered, waiting patiently for Harry to go on. "Ron," Harry repeated shakily, "He...They..." Harry's wand slipped from his fingers and fell dully to the ground, and Harry himself teetered as though he might follow. Snape caught him easily beneath the shoulders, but it was clear Harry wouldn't be able to support himself and Snape held him upright with an irritated groan. 

Despite Harry's ambiguity, Dumbledore seemed to understand him perfectly.

"Severus, come with me," he said already turning toward the train himself, "Rainey, see to Harry. Get him back on the train." Harry was hastily handed over to the stranger, more hastily than simply the urgency of the situation required. The little witch possessed far more strength in her spindly limbs than Harry might have guessed and bore Harry easily when Snape heaved him like a sack of stones in her direction. Snape and Dumbledore disappeared into the shadows of the train, two billows of starched black and soft crimson velvet, with Harry, disoriented by the sudden flurry of activity, looking numbly after them. 

"You'll not want to lose this, my little one," the witch said, drawing Harry's arm around her neck to better support him as she bent to retrieve his wand and slip it slowly and carefully into his trouser pocket. Finally, Harry turned to look at her. Her voice had unnerved him worse than her look had before. It was low and dark and husky. It made Harry think of cheap brandy for some reason, even though he'd never had brandy in his life. 

"Who are you?" Harry heard himself ask her.

"Hmm," she said, a noncommittal, ragged vibration low in her throat. "Let us get you onboard before we bother with introductions." 

Harry allowed himself to be pulled back onto the train. Most of the carriages were now empty, as the others congregated further up. Harry wondered if this was the carriage where he'd found Malfoy. Though, there was no sign of the boy, and all the carriages looked the same, really. Oh well. Harry realized he didn't really care. 

She directed Harry to a central compartment and as he took a seat, the lights flickered and came back on. Harry winced, not only because his eyes were so accustomed to the darkness, but also because the sudden light was too warm, too cosy, too...normal. The cabin he sat in, like all the others, was plush and colourful, an inviting space where nothing dark or devastating happened. It turned Harry's stomach. He hated it...He hated its cheerful lie. 

Once he was settled, Harry's chaperone indifferently handed him a fair chunk of chocolate, which Harry only stared at and turned in his hands while she went to the door and peeked out. After checking the corridor in both directions and satisfying herself of their safety, she settled into the seat across from Harry, paying him little notice. She seemed far too at ease for Harry's liking. It annoyed him the way she sat there, relaxed, legs crossed, chewing the inside of her lip and idly brushing dirt from her black trousers. He found her almost as repulsive as the compartment. 

Long moments passed in silence. The witch glanced around, patiently waiting on the Headmaster to return, but Harry fixed his eyes on her. She reminded him of Sirius and Remus, in that he guessed her to be about their same age, yet looked much older. She too bore creases of extreme hardship. Time and trial had left their bitter claw marks at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but unlike Remus, they appeared in no way kind, nor did they flatter her. She looked hardened, not necessarily wizened, and her face was too cold, angular, and ashen to be Thought lovely. Though, Harry guessed she might have been quite so at one time, many years ago. 

Only very slowly, Harry came to realize that she returned his stare. Their eyes met and, again, her look rattled him. It was not malicious, just cold and unabashed, which Harry felt was almost worse. He looked away and took to studying the design on the rug instead...

Merlin, was the _whole _wizarding world covered in patterns, Harry wondered wryly. How many times in the past few weeks had he found himself doing this very thing, idly tracing designs with his eyes while he waited. Wallpapers, rugs, cloaks, book covers, everything was swirled or checked, embroidered or embossed. Design was woven into the very fabric of the wizarding world. Harry wondered if any of it held any magical significance, or if it was just a covering. Something to make the otherwise unlovely more appealing...a distraction...a deception. Harry sighed. Why on earth was he pondering paisley at a time like this?

Time. It felt like it was standing still. In the complete silence, without the ticking of a clock, he couldn't gage its passage. Everything seemed to lose its proportion, and his perception swelled and contracted. One moment he thought he'd go mad with waiting, with being unsure what he was even waiting for, really. The next, all structured thought would leave him and he felt he could drift in this timeless silence forever. At last Harry heard the soft hiss of the door to the compartment poison the silence and tear him from his tangential thoughts. He glanced up to see Dumbledore standing in the door with Hermione before him, still crying steadily but silently now. The Headmaster shepherded her inside to sit beside Harry, as she seemed not to know, or either not to care, where she was. 

"Ride with them the rest of the way to Hogwarts would you, Rainey ?" he asked their escort solemnly before turning to Harry and Hermione. "You are in excellent hands, I assure you," he promised gently. "This is Professor Cobbleshot, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. I will see you both again when we arrive." And with that, he withdrew again. 

Harry turned to Hermione, but had no idea what he might say to her. He felt as lost as she looked. He wanted to comfort her somehow, but she looked so fragile, as though she might crumble should he dare to touch her. Before he could bring himself to put his arm around Hermione, Professor Cobbleshot slipped from her seat to kneel before her, boldly taking one of Hermione's hands in both of her own. 

"There, there," she cooed. Yet her face was devoid of expression. Hermione wasn't looking at her anyway, or at anything in particular. But Harry was. The scene sent a searing bolt of protectiveness through him. He had the impulse to swat the vile woman away from Hermione. He felt like _growling _at her. But he did neither, only watched distrustfully. When she got no response, Professor Cobbleshot shrugged very slightly and, after regarding Hermione curiously for a moment , resumed her seat. Harry immediately wrapped his arm around Hermione, pulling her around to cry into his chest and throwing the professor a sour look. Oblivious to Harry's caustic glower, Cobbleshot simply curled her fingers under her chin and watched them. 

The remainder of the journey passed surprisingly quickly. It seemed only a heartbeat before they arrived at the school. Harry was held in the carriage while the others detrained. Hermione was immediately whisked off to the hospital wing with several others to have the gash on her forehead mended. There would be no trip across the lake tonight for the first years, perhaps for one of the first times in Hogwarts' history. Time was of the essence, they simply wanted to get everyone safely inside. Harry was taken to the school in a carriage all his own after the others set off, and was to be accompanied by his new teacher. When he stopped to affectionately stroke the neck of the thestral that would bear them, Cobbleshot allowed it, even gave the beast a pat herself before sauntering over and opening the carriage door for Harry. Neither spoke as they bounced along toward the school, but again, Cobbleshot studied Harry in her unnerving way. He might have thought he'd be accustomed to being the object of attention by now. But hers was not the adoring gaze of those at Grimmauld Place. It was simply and coldly curious, almost indifferent. It irked him immensely, but he held his tongue. Perhaps he was only being overly sensitive.

When they finally shuffled into the school Harry could hear Dumbledore's voice already carrying through the cavernous halls. Harry halted before the doors of the Great Hall, listening to the Headmaster make his speech. Again, Cobbleshot allowed him to tarry. Dumbledore was attempting to lend comfort to the frightened student body, particularly those closest to Ron, though ironically those the very closest to him were not even present. He praised Ron's courage, his loyalty. He lamented the tragedy of his 'death'; and, in so many words, urged everyone to remember him, like Cedric, not only as the wonderful person he was, but also as further proof of the ruthlessness and sheer heartlessness of the Dark Lord. This angered Harry greater than anything else that had happened that night.

How was it Dumbledore always seemed able to twist tragedy into a rally point against Voldemort? Why couldn't he just let them all grieve without stuffing bloody _propaganda _down their throats? Because they all _were _his army, and he knew it, even those who weren't members of DA...and he was programming them. A whole new generation was being trained, not only to become competent, productive members of the wizarding world but also, and more importantly, to battle Voldemort and his followers. And the next Dark Lord after him, like Grindlewald before. Harry's resentment dropped like a lead weight to the pit of his stomach. 

Cobbleshot ran a hand lightly down Harry's arm to pull him back to the here and now. It made Harry shiver in a decidedly unpleasant way. For fear she would touch him again, Harry began walking again, leaving the doors of the Great Hall behind. He didn't need to be told their destination was Dumbledore's office, he'd been through the 'school crisis' drill before. 

Cobbleshot whispered the password to the gargoyle statue, right into its ear as though it were a living breathing sentinel, and stepped aside for Harry to enter. Without so much as a nod, she wandered off elsewhere as Harry rose on the rotating stair and out of sight. Harry shook his head. The woman's oddity might almost have fascinated him, if it did not presently bother him so severely. 

He found the door to the office unlocked and he went inside, taking a seat in one of the familiar chairs, and waited for the Headmaster, as he had far too many times before. He had recovered himself considerably by now. He didn't feel quite so dazed. Anger can be surprisingly sobering. And unfortunately, he didn't find this space as soothing or reassuring as he once had. Sometime during his last visit here it had changed. Or rather, Harry had changed, and it no longer had it's usual effect on him. Now it was just a room. Harry sat there, trying to drown Dumbledore's speech from his thoughts...trying not to replay the evening in his mind, trying to stop himself from wondering what he could have done differently. He ignored the eyes from all the dozens of paintings he knew were prone on him. 

Despite himself, his and Ron's last, angry exchange echoed through his thoughts. Dumbledore's words may have riled him, but Ron's cut him deeply. If he didn't quiet them soon he'd surely go mad. Harry tried to dwell in the remembrance of the trust he'd felt in Ron's grip when Harry had helped him to his feet, or the reassuring clap on the back he'd received after Ron return the favour soon after. But then all Harry's forced avenues of thought came to an abrupt end as realization began to slowly sink in. 

Ron was gone.

It seemed so difficult to imagine. Harry's life before he'd found the wizarding world seemed like an illusion, and after...afterward there had always, always been Ron. Everything that had happened to Harry since he was 11 years old had been shared in some way with the boy. But never again. They would never share another adventure, another secret, another grudging word or friendly gesture. The memory of Ron's face in the blue green glow before the attack drifted to the surface of Harry's thoughts. He'd looked so corpse-like, a portent of things to come. Harry tried and failed to banish the image. It was only replaced, finally, by the memory of Ron's face as he lay in Hermione's arms. Despair welled in Harry like liquid in a container too small and frail to hold it. He fought it, but half-heartedly. It was a battle he knew he wouldn't win. Harry clenched his fists. His cheeks were already wet, and he was trembling again. It was far too quiet in the room. He needed a distraction. If he did escape these thoughts... 

"Heard you had a rough time of it."

Harry's head snapped toward the voice, startled, but relieved. Phineas was seated haughtily in his frame, looking down at him. Harry might have been irritated by the very sight of Phineas, had not his comment pulled Harry from such dangerous thoughts. Still, Harry didn't bother with a response. Grateful though he may be, he still couldn't stand Phineas. 

"Though, as usual, you seem to have blundered forth to save the day. What would we all do if not for Harry Potter, eh?" Phineas continued sardonically, apparently none too impressed. However, his remark emboldened the many who were, and from every side Harry was pelted with comments like 'Bravo, my boy', 'Brilliant show', 'Truly marvellous,' and 'Taught them well, you did!' All the former heads of Hogwarts looked down on Harry, grinning, misty-eyed, and proud to bursting. Harry groaned quietly, though after that short outburst, they all seemed too overcome to comment further anyway. Everyone, that is, except Phineas.

"Yes, yes. Bravo and all that," he said with a wave of his hand. "You'll be pleased to know your flea-bitten guardianis well on his way here." Harry bristled, but only shook his head. He felt quite certain Phineas simply enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and far too much at that. He'd just ignore Phineas. "Though I can't say I would have elected _him _for the job...of being your keeper that is. Why Dumbledore didn't see fit to chose another, considering the blatant spell that _nancy _cast on my grandson, is beyond me. How does he expect _that _to be a positive influence on you?" Instead of taking the hint, Phineas seemed somehow encouraged by Harry's lack of response. "Personally, I can't say I trust him," he confided nastily. "The mangy bitch ruined my lineage and now I imagine he'll want to ruin your father's." Harry's teeth ground and he finally turned a slow, venous glare in Phineas' direction. 

"Phineas, Shh!" scolded a witch two paintings over. All the rest were scowling at him as well. But apparently Phineas enjoyed having an audience, even an irate one. 

"I will not '_shush'_," he snapped, nose rising a little higher, getting a bit riled himself. "_My _house, the most noble and _ancient _house of Black, is finished. Our name is but a memory, all because that queer-"

"_Phineas_!" someone gasped. Harry was on the edge of his seat, fists clenched for an entirely different reason now. 

"Well it's true!" Phineas insisted to the objecting wizard across the room. "Sirius produced no heir all because that sulking..."

"This is _not _appropriate!"

"...bestial..."

"_Really_!"

"..._faggot _corrupted him!"

"Shut. Up." Harry voice was quiet but dangerous, and his nails were embedded in the arm of his chair. Phineas started. He was so busy arguing with the others he appeared to have forgotten Harry was even there. His chest puffed in offence. 

"Excuse me, young man, but I don't think you have any place telling _me_-"

"SHUT UP! _Shut up_! Or I'll _shut _you up!" Harry shouted, swiftly rising to his feet and overturning his chair in the process. Phineas ruffled further and filled his lungs to shout back, but was interrupted when Dumbledore walked through the office door. 

"Harry?" he inquired, looking at him down his spectacles. Anyone in that wing of the castle could have heard Harry's outburst. All of the portraits spoke up at one to tattle on Phineas.

'It was _him _again, sir...'

'...being _absolutely_-'

'_No _respect for -'

Dumbledore raised his hand for quiet. "...Phineas," he said calmly, drawing further into his office, "kindly remove yourself for the time being."

"_Well_, I-"

"Phineas," Dumbledore repeated firmly, "go and see if Remus has left yet."

"He has," Phineas replied flatly, crossing his arms and hunkering down as though he had absolutely no intention of going anywhere. But Dumbledore's severe look, as well as the threatening ones he was getting from several of his neighbours who were brandishing their wands and inching slowly toward his frame, apparently changed Phineas' mind. Muttering crossly, he withdrew into the shadowy depths of his canvas and was gone. 

Dumbledore sighed and make his way heavily toward his desk. There he stood looking kindly and sadly down at Harry, who was staring at the rug as though he aspired to set it flame through sheer will and chewed angrily on his bottom lip till it almost bled. 

"Harry..." he said gently, drawing Harry's attention from the floor. Though, Harry's violent expression didn't change with his focal point. Dumbledore's brow furrowed ever so slightly.

"_What_?" Harry snapped. Instead of answering him, Dumbledore took a deep breath and finally seated himself. He cast Harry a concerned look and lay his hands on his desk, opening them toward Harry in a gesture of invitation.

"Would you care to discuss what has happened?" he offered kindly. Harry snorted.

"And just what do you expect me to say?" he asked scathingly. Dumbledore's furrow deepened. 

"Perhaps...how you feel...about-"

"About losing my best friend? ABOUT BEING THE REASON HE DIED?"

"Harry. There is absolutely no reason you should feel responsible in any way-"

"_Please_. I'm not so bloody _naive_. I wish everyone would stop treating me like I am!," Harry interrupted. Dumbledore opened his mouth to object, but closed it again. "Of course it's my fault," Harry continued waspishly. "This whole ruddy mess involves me. It always does."

"Harry, it involves us _all_. But that certainly doesn't mean you are at _fault_," Dumbledore argued gently. "Voldemort, we believe, was under the impression you were not even aboard the Hogwarts Express at the time of the attack."

"Which is why he attacked it? Is that it? Because I wasn't there to throw a kink in the plan as usual?" This was not the point Dumbledore had been trying to make, obviously. Still, Harry could tell by Dumbledore's silence and expression that he had struck near to the truth. "See? _I _was part of his decision. _I _was the reason we were attacked. I was one of Voldemort's concerns...and so it was _my _fault," Harry said adamantly. Dumbledore shook his head sadly and began to argue, but Harry grimaced and shook his head, gesturing for silence. "I don't want to talk about it," he said feebly, laying his face in his hands. 

"Hmph," came a voice from above them, "Dumbledore, really. Are you going to allow yourself to be _silenced _by a child? I've told you, they have no respect for auth-"

"_Phineas_," Dumbledore warned rather dangerously. Phineas shut up with a snap and disappeared again. Harry's anger flair again, but he only shook his head and went to retrieve his chair, where h e was then allowed to sit and think for a moment undisturbed. 

...So he may not be technically at fault. What did it matter? It didn't take away his regret, his pain. It was easier to believe it _was _his fault, that he had had the ability to prevent it and somehow failed, than it was to believe he'd been powerless. He hated feeling helpless. And above all, that's why he hated Voldemort...for rendering him so, in this and in so many other things. 

And Dumbledore wanted to discuss how he felt? He wanted to know what it felt like to lose everything? To have no one and nothing...no home, no family, and now to have lost his best friend who, quite possibly, died hating him? How could he even begin to explain what it felt like to be Harry Potter? How can one put into words the pressure and anxiety and aggravation of being expected to save the whole bloody world from a genius of the Dark Arts, a vengeful, near invincible madman he'd already killed at least twice already? How could he describe the sheer frustration that his only incentive to do so, beside to prevent anyone else he cared about from being killed, was that he _had-no-choice_? Dumbledore wanted to know how he _felt_? He was bloody pissed off, that's how he felt! Angry and oh so damned helpless...

Rage the likes of which Harry had never felt before, of such magnitude he never thought himself capable, erupted in him. It was so all-consuming he didn't think he could contain it, yet had no desire to. It was a cold fury. A malicious one. Harry felt destructive, but he didn't want to smash things. He wanted to obliterate them. He wanted to reduce the whole of Hogwarts, and everything and everyone in it, to ashes. He felt like strangling a bunny, decapitating a bloody unicorn. He felt like slaughtering everything innocent, pure, and carefree that had never known the kind of pain he was experiencing right now. 

Harry could feel the heat rising to his face, he was shaking badly. He saw red, his anger blinded him to everything around him, to Dumbledore rising to his feet in alarm. 

"Harry..." he said cautioningly, but Harry misunderstood his tone.

"I SAID I DIDN'T WANT TO FUCKING TALK ABOUT IT!" Harry bellowed. But as loudly as he had shouted, Harry never heard his own words. They were drowned out by a deafening roar that rushed through and around him, as though Harry were standing in the centre of a bonfire, and his scar exploded in pain. Though, rather than the usual, stabbing pain that seemed almost to pierce his very brain, this time his scar erupted outwardly, as though it had split open and poured forth liquid flame. There was an ear-splitting crash, as of much glass shattering at once, and everything went black. 

Harry drifted in this darkness. His anger had been to much for him to bear, and he waited in this welcome oblivion for it to be spent. But even here, where he thought he was beyond all feeling, all pain, his scar throbbed a second time...and something dark, something malevolently exhilarated woke in him. His own cruel laughter sounded in his ears and he felt triumphant, though for the life of him could not understand why. 

When Harry finally regained his senses, he found himself on his knees, covered in bits of tinted glass, and still grinning. He shook his head to banish the last of the strange delight and glanced around him. Every breakable object in Dumbledore's office now lay in pieces, covering the floor in a sparkling blanket as though it had just snowed shards of glass. Harry raised a shocked look to the Headmaster, and saw the wizard's beard glittered with the stuff, and his hands and face glistened where numerous nicks and cuts began to ooze. It looked as though Dumbledore sweated blood. 

The Headmaster looked...afraid. It was the first time in Harry's life he'd seen him that way: not wary, not dreading or anticipatory, but truly fearful. Seeing it sent a glimmer of fear through Harry himself. He was afraid of Dumbledore's fear...was afraid of what he had just done to elicit it. Slowly, he lifted his trembling hand to examine the wounds he bore as well, but seeing them, cried out and bolted to his feet, taking several staggering steps backward as though he could escape his own arm. Dumbledore raised at hand to him as if to comfort or quiet him, but seemed too godsmacked still to manage speech. Harry turned round and round, looking at the damage, trying to comprehend that _he _had done this. 

Most of the frames on the walls were empty, the rest revealed their owners peeking timidly from the corners...All, of course, except for Phineas. He leaned forward from the shadows, wide eyed curiously impressed by the ruin he beheld. But this only lasted for the split second before he noticed Harry's attention, at which time his expression dissolved instantly into a haughty sneer. 

"You know, Dumbledore," he drawled, apparently trying to save face, "If you don't stop having the boy up here, you'll soon have no things left at all."

It was, by far, not the cleverest or most cutting remark that the man had even uttered, yet it washed over Harry as if he'd just insulted Sirius, Ron, Remus, Cedric, and his parents all at once. 

"No, Harry," Dumbledore shouted, but it was too late. Harry had already taken up a large shard of glass and launched himself, with a rattled cry, toward Phineas, who let out a high pitched shriek of his own as Harry plunged the glass through his canvas. 

"Who's the poof now?" Harry thought with frightening satisfaction as he drew the shard down the length of the painting. He lifted his arm to strike again, when his wrist was seized by strong fingers. They squeezed and shook until Harry dropped the shard, bloody where it had cut into his palm. Frustrated, Harry cried out and tore at the canvas with his other hand, doing a fair amount of damage before Dumbledore wrapped an arm securely around his waist and bore him back away from his victim. Harry clawed Dumbledore's arm, kicking against him and even gnashing his teeth.

"Shh," Dumbledore whispered into Harry's ear with surprising calm. Harry whimpered and continued to struggle. "Quiet now, Harry."

Exhausted but stubborn, Harry arched his entire body against the Headmaster's grasp and released a single, wordless roar, through which he bled out the last of his fury. "That's it, now calm yourself," Dumbledore soothed. Harry's legs trembled and gave way and they were pitched to the floor. He could feel the glass through his denim, cutting into his knees and leg, but Harry was beyond all physical pain at the moment. 

"Let go, Harry" 

And finally, Harry did. With a shattering sob he fell limp. The arms around his waist slackened and drew him around to cradle him. Dumbledore was saying something else, but Harry couldn't make it out. He was drifting. He closed his eyes, and immediately lost consciousness. 


	13. I Am Myself Indifferent Honest

****

Chapter Thirteen: 

Weightless. Numb. Devoid of thought. Harry let himself sink deeper and deeper into the darkness, indifferent to its nature. For a while, he couldn't recall a time before it. He felt fresh, and eternal, and completely without identity. 

Then, gradually Harry began to notice he had stopped sinking. Consciousness now cradled him, bore him in the dark like a great, listless hand. 

__

Why do you do this? 

The voice was so faint, as if someone whispered to him from a distance. Harry scarcely heard it. 

"Wh-what?"

__

Why do you do this? the voice repeated, closer now. Harry began to vaguely recall that something important had just happened. _He _had done something. Something awful. 

"I-it was an accident," Harry stammered weakly, unable to hear his own voice clearly and wondering if he had spoken at all. He was still uncertain exactly what he was denying. The voice, or rather, whatever the voice belonged to, seemed much closer now. Harry could feel its presence somehow _coat _him, like pond scum clings to a stone. It was a loathsome sensation. The voice chuckled cruelly. 

__

Your whole life is an accident, it jeered. Harry recognized this voice, but couldn't place its owner just then, he could scarcely remember himself. _Things have a way of going awry for all of us despite our intentions. So stop whining. I _know _what happened. I know what you _did_, and it was no accident. Though perhaps you hadn't expected such an..._explosive _outcome? But what do I care about an old man's trinkets? That little display of yours quite delighted me, actually. Couldn't you tell?_

Memories slowly began to surface. A carpet of shattered glass, the tinkle of raining shards. Dumbledore sweating blood. A shriek cut short by a sound like ripping fabric.

What had he done?

"Who are you?" Harry asked apprehensively.

__

Come now. We both know you are capable of answering that question on your own. Why don't you try another, hmm? One more pertinent.

Harry felt like arguing that there was no reason he should be expected to answer the question himself. Why else would he have asked? But even as he wondered on it, revulsion washed over him, along with a complete recollection of self and the evening's happenings. It was violent in that it was so sudden and full, like striking the surface of icy waters after a long fall. He remembered everything...And could now place the voice.

"Go to Hell, you heartless bastard!"

__

Ooh. Anger. How entertaining. Haven't tired of it yet I see. Keep it up. You're becoming exactly what I want you to.

"_Oh_? And just what is _that_?"

__

Why, more like me, of course.

Harry snorted in disgust. "I'm _nothing _like you. You're a madman."

__

Exploding a room full of baubles and shredding innocuous portraits, these are the pastimes of sane men I suppose? Stop taking on such righteous airs. We are not so different. If you could do such a thing to Phineas, you're all that much closer to doing the same to a living, breathing person. You realize that don't you?

Cold guilt flooded Harry's gut and threatened to make him ill. He'd gone through too much that night to allow himself to acknowledge the severity of what he'd done just yet. Harry wanted to hide, to escape. He knew he didn't have the strength for this confrontation and longed for the void of forgetfulness he'd so recently been torn from. 

"Leave me alone," he mumbled wearily. "Get out of my head."

__

And just how do you know you aren't in mine? Oh be still, the voice chided. _I'm not here to rape your memories, enticing as the opportunity is. And I assure you it would be only too easy at the moment. Call it a show of good faith. I'm just going to talk to you. No harm in that is there?_

"What could _you _possibly have to say to me that I would care to listen to?" Harry said, growing irritable. He was still too tired to be fearful, though reason told him he should be. 

__

Oh. You'd be surprised.

"I somehow doubt it. And what if I just told you to go screw yourself?" Harry spat.

I do believe you already have, was the darkly amused reply. _Though unfortunately for you, you have little choice. See, you've exhausted all your energy throwing your glorious little tantrum, and so for a while longer at least, I have a captive audience. _Resentment coiled in Harry, but he could not even muster the will to bark an insulting reply. Once again, he found himself at the mercy of circumstance. 

That's right. So what say you curtail that Gryffindor impertinence and give a listen, as we both know how foolishly self-assured you are already. Your kind seems to think your strength is best measured adversely by your show of manners, or lack thereof. You assume defiance and civility cannot exist simultaneously. But without civility, how do you suppose negotiations are made?

"My kind?" Harry inquired with slight incredulity. "You mean people with any ounce of integrity? I guess you think murder is civil. Or maybe manners just come more easily to _cowards_. Why should I make any deals with you anyway? Just what could you offer me to make me forget you've ruined my life?"

Oh pish tosh. I'm not trying to make you forget anything. Quite the contrary. Besides, do you think you are the only boy ever to be orphaned? To be raised by those who did not love you? That's simply life, I'm afraid. My _life as well actually, so you'll wring no sympathy from me. _

However, speaking of life...well, lives_...that's precisely what I'm offering you._

"What?"

__

Do try not to be so dense, or this should take all night. Harry struggled to keep his anger in check. _You asked what we were negotiating for, did you not?_

"_Lives_?"

__

Yes. Though it might be more appropriate to say we're negotiating with _lives. Yours to be specific, and the ones of those you love. _

"You've already killed everyone I love," Harry snarled with as much hatred as he could summon. 

Oh surely not everyone. So long as you allow yourself to feel, there's always something left to be lost. Haven't I taught you that by now? And with such a passionate heart as yours, I'd imagine there are several _others for me to chose from. The half-breed for instance...take your pick which. Or that mudblood you so shamelessly associate yourself with. Was she _very _upset by the fate of your friend? Perhaps I should put her out of her misery. You know, a mercy kill, not unlike any compassionate soul might do when they happen upon a wounded bitch. _

Before Harry could verbalize his offence, he had a vision of Hermione as she had appeared on the train: corpse-like in the eerie light. Then insult gave way to horror as the image shifted to one of her face as she had held Ron, and her anguished crying rang in Harry's ears. Despair threatened, but before it could prove overwhelming, the vision changed once again. Hermione's agonized expression shifted from one of emotional devastation to one of physical pain, and her cries became shrill and throaty, as if made by one long tortured. Harry gradually came to realize that what he was seeing was no longer a mere memory, and that he now stood in a dungeon-like room of bleak stone. In the floor before him, Hermione writhed, her hoarse, unending screams wrenching at Harry's heart. 

"_Hermione_! _No_!" Harry screamed, but found himself glued to the spot, unable to reach her to quiet or sooth her. Harry was frantic in his impotence. He stared wildly about the room, hands pressed to his ears as though, should he be unable to hear them, Hermione's screams might cease to spill from her. A flash in the corner, as if of polished wood, caught his eye and he watched as the tip of a sleek, black wand emerged from the darkness borne by a pale hand, almost scaly in appearance, as the figure they belonged to lazily sidled from beneath the cover of shadow. 

Lord Voldemort appeared much as he had when last Harry had met him, only his hood was thrown back now, perhaps so Harry could more clearly see the satisfaction on his hideous, inhuman face. He twitched his wand minutely in Hermione's direction so that her screams rose in pitch and volume, but otherwise paid her little attention. His eyes, red and darkly luminous, as though they gained their light by robbing it from the space around them, were locked to Harry's. 

Harry tore away from the awful gaze and fell to his knees beside his suffering friend, still unable to reach her. "Stop it!" he roared. Voldemort, to spite the urgency of the cry, only flicked his wand once more, sending Hermione arching off the floor. 

"_Stop_!...Please. I'll do anything. Just...Just **STOP**!" 

Slowly, Voldemort smiled and lowered his wand. Hermione instantly vanished. The space before Harry's crouched form was bare of any trace of her. Harry's heart hammered in his chest and his breath was laboured. His face was wet with tears he was unaware he'd even shed. No longer stuck fast, he crawled forward to swipe at the floor where Hermione had lain. The stones were ice cold. No lingering warmth from the presence of a fevered body. Finally, Harry calmed himself by degrees. It was only an illusion. Not real. Not really his only friend being tortured to death in front of him. Hermione was safe and whole and far from this place. 

When his terror subsided sufficiently to make room for it, Harry's absolute loathing for the figure looming over him filled him like liquid so cold it scalds. Without lifting his face, Harry raised a murderous gaze up at Voldemort. 

"I dare say, that's gotten your attention."

"You stay away from Hermione," Harry threatened, voice trembling with suppressed fury. "Do you hear me, you twisted _fuck_? _You stay away _or I'll-"

"You'll what?" Voldemort sneered, his tight, serpentine nostrils flaring with disgust. He gave a short, quiet laugh. "You have no more power to prevent it than you did the others....Unless, we can strike a bargain." Harry glared up at him but said nothing. "Accept it, Harry. You're no match for me any longer. All your previous 'victories' can be attributed to blind luck and a handicapped opponent. But those times are over. I suggest you not take for granted this one opportunity to escape this game with your life." 

He _would _consider it a game, Harry thought wryly. He closed his eyes, every fibre of his being raged against any semblance of submission to the monster before him. "Just what in hell do you want from me?" he uttered, voice still and insuppressibly defiant. 

"Don't be so hasty," Voldemort drawled toyingly. "I believe you have yet to answer the question I put to you. And after all, I asked first."

Question? What bloody question? Harry bit back the curse on his tongue. Voldemort, it appeared, could not have been more delighted by a reply of any kind as he was by the absence of one. He was practically jovial when he asked, "Why do you do this?"

"Do. _What_?"

"Why, continue to let that dotard bolster the futile hope that you might defeat me?"

"It's _not _futile," Harry said in a low, confident voice.

"Oh really? With each passing day I grow stronger. Each day my forces multiply. My minions can be found in every nook and cranny of the Wizarding World. I have spies the world over...though more importantly, I have a valuable few very close to home." Voldemort smiled as if he'd just made some marvellous joke at Harry's expense. And Harry tried desperately to banish all thoughts of Professor Snape. 

"And just what do you have in your favour?" Voldemort went on, oblivious. Harry attempted to mask his relief with a show of expected unease. "An old fool, long passed his prime, trying to recreate his past glories through an inept band of rag-tag volunteers?" Voldemort chuckled mockingly. "Then there's _you _of course. Do you really think your patronus will be enough to drive me away? Or perhaps you expect me to cower before your awesome skills of disarmament when next we meet? No. Your hope is futile." Voldemort stowed his wand in his robes as if to punctuate what he considered to be Harry's harmlessness. Harry wondered if he dared check to see if he still bore his own wand, or if it would, in fact, be to any avail to draw it. 

"However, I'd personally like to think, considering the handful of times you've narrowly succeeded in eluding my grasp, that perhaps you were a modicum brighter than the blasé masses that Dumbledore so effortlessly steers using their own desperation as reins. The fools are ever willing to swallow whatever line he feeds them so long as it sounds impressive and virtuous and makes them feel secure. But you, so long and so far removed from their world...I really thought you'd have caught on to his games before now."

"You're trying to trick me," Harry said collectedly, finally rising to his feet. "It won't work."

"No," Voldemort insisted lightly as though speaking to a child. "I'm trying to enlighten you, in hopes of our mutual benefit. I've no reason to lie to you any longer, Harry. This is no longer between me and you." Harry eyed him distrustfully, and Voldemort levelled a sombre gaze at him.

"...But _Dumbledore_, he likes to keep you in the dark, doesn't he? Likes to show you only enough to keep the embers burning," he said in a knowing tone. "Oh I understand his reasoning. Minions are easier to manipulate when they are ignorant. The only problem with that tactic is there's always the threat of backfire. It only takes a single voice of reason in their ear to send those carefully constructed lies crashing down. Disillusionment is too often counterproductive to manipulation...and he _is _manipulating you, you realize."

"You're a liar," Harry said dismissively, but the unease that shifted his weight on his feet was no longer feigned. "_You're _the manipulator." 

"Am I?" Voldemort replied, raising what passed on his hairless, featureless face as an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you've never thought about it, never questioned the man's intentions." Harry didn't respond.

"Oh my. You really haven't." The fiend grinned, a hideous sight. "How amusing. I hate to break it to you, Harry, but you are little more to him than a weapon against me. You are a _tool _in his aged hand. And one that is quickly losing its usefulness. You're predictability was once to his advantage. And now it's shifted to mine." Harry scowled at him. "Don't you see what he's doing? What he's always done? He dangles you before the masses and spreads word of your heroics in order to placate them. But he never lets them have you completely. He always keeps you well under his wing...under his _control_. I wonder what the grasping populous would think if they learned the truth. That their 'saviour' is simply mediocre. That he cannot even control his own 'awesome' powers. What would they think if they learned what really happened at the ministry that night, how you needlessly endangered so many of your fellow students and baited your godfather's death-trap."

"No! That's a lie. It _wasn't _my fault," Harry bleated. 

"Hmm. Tell yourself that if it helps you sleep at night. Though you're probably right. It wasn't _entirely _your fault. Though I doubt Dumbledore is nearly as upset by his contribution. It truly was a pity. Black was a very valuable card. Imagine now those same drones discovering that you and Dumbledore were so closely associated with a murderous traitor in the Dark Lord's service. Not very becoming of someone meant to vanquish me."

Rending open such a tender wound as Sirius' death left Harry feeling frail and lost. That Voldemort lamented the loss as well forced Harry to abandon his attempt to shift the blame to him. And he had no other readily available scapegoats. 

"Understand, Harry," Voldemort continued, looking down at him in some grotesque mockery of gentleness. "I'm not telling you these things simply to wound you. I'm merely attempting to help you see your position more clearly. All your life you've been subject to misfortunes, punishments really, for some unknown crime. Simply being who you are has made you the target of attack, ridicule, abuse, suspicion...unwanted, _unwarranted _praise or prejudice. Why, Harry? Why carry this cross for the sake of an unappreciative, undeserving public? Who are you fighting for? Do you really want to be a martyr? You wish to die, like your parents, needlessly? In _vain_?" At the mention of his parents, Harry's resentment nudged itself back to his attention. Damn the bastard's audacity. "Aren't you tired of being a soldier on the front lines of a war you did not begin, cannot end...following directives you had no hand in deciding and only think you comprehend? You seem to enjoy playing Dumbledore's fool."

"Dumbledore _isn't _using me," Harry objected hotly. "He's _helping _me. He cares about-"

"Ha. Cares? If that's affection, I praise the day my heart turned cold. What is he helping you to do exactly? Prepare for the next potential suicide mission he devises for you? Open your _eyes_, Harry. He's training you, yes...to do what he'd rather not. Ever since he got you back in his greedy little hands five years ago, he's been moulding you. Don't you remember what happened then?"

__

"I saved the Philosopher's Stone from _you_," Harry replied with cool satisfaction. 

"Tsk. Wrong. Do you think he would have ever allowed the Stone to survive if he thought there was any real chance of it falling into my hands? The timing was also very convenient don't you think? I had lain dormant for years. There had not been a single whisper of my return, no chance of it really. _Convenient _that the Stone, one of the only things in existence powerful enough to resurrect me, that might tempt me from hiding, just happened to emerge from obscurity in the same year...nay, the very same day...that the 'Great Harry Potter' made his entrée back into the Wizarding World. I didn't fully appreciate it at the time, but I've had plenty of opportunity to reflect, now haven't I?" Voldemort stepped toward Harry and bent slightly to look him meaningfully in the eye. "He was showing you to me with that little stunt. And he was _testing _you."

Harry squinted sceptically at the villain and scoffed lightly, but an icy tremor of doubt played up his spine. "You're full of shite." Voldemort laughed at that, the same cruel, mirthless laughter Harry always heard whenever a dementor approached. It made Harry shudder. 

"Dumbledore's 'protections' surrounding the Stone were far too elementary to be aimed at me. The challenges were set in place for _your _benefit. And I imagine, considering your limited experience, that your performance was quite heartening, despite that you were aided by others. How tickled he must have been. He set bait for one soldier and snared three."

Despite himself, Harry allowed himself to wonder about Dumbledore's lenience that year. He wondered about the ease with which he'd found the Mirror of Erised, seemingly by accident, while wearing the invisibility cloak given him by the Headmaster, as if it were a kind of endorsed permission slip for Harry to misbehave. Harry wondered why, if the Mirror was as treacherous as Dumbledore made it out to be, it hadn't been better hidden, or why he'd been allowed to visit it several times. Harry looked up at Voldemort, trying to rekindle the revulsion for him he'd felt only moments ago, yet found himself, instead, waiting anxiously for him to continue. 

Voldemort smiled and his eyes danced as he looked at Harry now, as if he could practically see the thoughts racing through the young man's head. "And when you proved yourself somewhat capable," he went on, beginning to pace leisurely back and forth in front of Harry, never breaking eye contact, "the next year he had you do a bit of housecleaning for him. He could not find the Chamber of Secrets on his own. Merlin knows how many years he'd searched for it in vain. So he let you find it for him. I wonder that he did not somewhat resent you for that, succeeding where he, the Great Albus Dumbledore, had failed...a bitter sting he'd felt once before. Perhaps that's why he let you exterminate it for him as well. He gave you the tools to do so, naturally. Much like one supplies a maid with a feather duster. But where was he when you faced certain death down in the cold, wet darkness? Keeping his feet dry, that's where. In more ways than one."

Harry had to repeatedly remind himself that Voldemort was a liar. Harry _knew _that he was only trying to mislead him, that he would say anything. But Harry had a hard time concentrating on this inner voice. It was overpowered by the one that flowed like blood-soaked silk from the mouth of the man before him. 

"He couldn't come," Harry argued, more to himself than to Voldemort. "He'd been suspended. He couldn't-"

"Do you really think a sheet of parchment could keep _Albus Dumbledore _from any place he truly desired to be? In case you haven't noticed, much like you and I, he has never been one to let frivolous things like rules stand in his way...at least, not when they do not already suit his purposes. Don't be so naive, Harry. It doesn't become you."

"Stop using my name like we're friends or something," Harry blurted peevishly, unsure why it suddenly so agitated him. "I don't like you to use it. It..." _It reminds me too much of talking to Dumbledore. _

Voldemort gave Harry an indulgent, condescending chuckle. "Oh very well. What should I call you then? Potter? But Potter will always be your father to me. And I don't think of you as your father." Harry raised a timid look up at him, almost ashamed of his own childishness in the matter. "You remind me of him, of course. But you are not nearly hypocritical enough. Neither do you have his penchant for indifferent cruelty. Prejudice isn't to be reviled _only _when it doesn't suit one's personal tastes. It's almost a shame Dumbledore got to him before I did." Harry met Voldemort's eye steadily, upset but unsure how much offence he could take at the remarks. After all, Harry knew so little about his father, except what he'd seen in photos, and the Mirror...and what he'd witnessed in the pensieve. 

"So. _Harry_. Are you considering what I'm telling you? Dumbledore would have let you die in the Chamber, along with that Muggle-lover's daughter. Just as he would have allowed you and your friends to kill yourselves on that obstacle course he'd devised for you your first year at school."

"You're wrong," Harry said, but the remark lacked conviction.

"All acceptable sacrifices in his grand design. And there have been so many potential sacrifices. Think back to that farce almost two years ago. The Tri-Wizard tournament, 'a positive step toward healthy internationally relations', an attempt to unify the world against me.

"How does it feel to be bait, Harry?" Voldemort asked in a near whisper, his pacing now a circling, not unlike that of a wistful vulture. A voice from Harry's memory sounded in his ears. 

A useful distraction. Nothing more. 

"Do you think that, had Barty not beaten him to it, Dumbledore would not have entered your name into the Goblet himself? If he hadn't wanted you to compete, he'd have found ways to remove you. Laws don't exist for men like him. You, your friends, the other champions...all expendable, all sacrifices for the sake of reaching me. He allowed you to participate in those games, those widely publicized games, in order to lure me in."

"No," Harry said quietly, eyes falling closed.

"Though, he underestimated me. His trap backfired. All these years he's had you on display, trying to draw me within striking distance. But I humbled him with that stroke, made him rethink his strategy. Afterwards he tucked you away, hid you, as he should have all along _if _he had cared at all for your safety. He's not the omniscient you think him to be. He's learning as we go, just as you are, just as I am. We're learning from each other...and never so much so as we did that night a few months ago. That night _you _learned the value of doubt. I learned you no longer merited my concern. And he...he learned that a certain gangly, ungrateful teenager is quickly becoming more trouble than he is worth."

"No. You're lying. I can't trust you," Harry whined, desperate to believe it. 

"Dumbledore is no better than I am, Harry. Actually, I'd say he's worse. _He's _the coward, hiding behind a mask of righteousness. Where as I have never made any excuses for what I am. He's just as ruthless as I am, though his real crime is, perhaps not murder, but apathy. He allowed you and that boy to be in the tournament, knowing full well the danger. Counting on it. And so essentially, he allowed that boy to die in front of you."

"No."

"He _allowed_ Sirius Black to fly from his safe haven and to his death."

"_No_."

"And he practically killed your parents himself."

"_Enough_!"

"Ask your Potions Master the truth about that one."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and brought his palms to his temples, trying to push out Voldemort's voice and the thoughts it elicited...trying to stave off the crushing pain of suspected betrayal. "You're lying. You _are _false. You..._You're just playing with my head_," Harry keened. 

"Oh. A game is being played here, Harry," came the slippery voice right at Harry's ear. "But you aren't a competitor any longer." Harry opened his eyes and looked at Voldemort...confused, aching, searching the repulsive visage so close to his own. The cold fire in Voldemort's red eyes flared and Harry stumbled back a small step. 

"The game being played has nothing to do with right and wrong. It is a game for _power_, played by the powerful, and played _with _the lives of the weak...That would be you. You have always only been a pawn. This battle is between Dumbledore and myself."

"What do you want from me? Why am I here?!" Harry bellowed, half mad with the ambivalence that raged in him. 

"I only want to help you."

"Bullshit!" Harry spat. "I suppose you've forgotten that you were the one who involved me in this. _You _killed my parents. You ask who I'm fighting for? All I've ever fought for is my _life_. Because you insist on threatening it!"

"And I'm telling you I might be persuaded to threaten it no longer!" Voldemort hissed, apparently running out of patience with Harry. His voice was sinister and threatening in itself. It chilled Harry to the bone. 

When Harry appeared sufficiently submissive, quieted without cowering, Voldemort continued , somewhat calmer but no longer making any attempt at benevolence. 

"I have a proposition for you. I want you to stop being Dumbledore's lackey."

"And _what_? Join you? Go to Hell," Harry said shakily. 

"It is impolite to interrupt," Voldemort said tersely, drawing closer to loom over Harry. "_I _want nothing to do with you any longer. Which is why we're here."

"B-but what about the prophecy?"

"It no longer concerns me. I realize now that my belief in it, and effort to nullify it, was precisely what lead to it's partial fulfilment. An annoying trait of prophecies, they usually require some faith in them in order to come to fructuation, as though they feed off it. I'll not make that mistake again." It was only then that Harry remembered that Voldemort had never heard the end of the prophesy, _neither can live... _Otherwise he had a feeling he wouldn't take the chance of leaving him alive, belief or no. He quickly pushed the thought from his mind. 

"No. I no longer seek to kill you. I would not give Dumbledore that advantage. It's true what I told you. You've become more trouble to the old man than you are worth. The threat to your life now comes from him, not me. He'd be rid of you, but will not do the deed himself. It would be so much better for him if I did that for him. Yet another tragedy he could sing about to the public, something he could use to rile them against me. But we won't let that happen, will we Harry? We mustn't be his puppets."

Even if any of this was true, Harry had no control over any of it. He had never had. 

"What do you expect me to do about all of this?" he asked, confused, tired. 

"Nothing."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Just because I do not thirst for your blood does not automatically remove you from this equation. Dumbledore will, as always, try to shepherd you into confrontation with me. Do not let him. Behave, for once in your life. Do what you should have done all your life and look on everything through a lens of doubt and scrutiny. Do not put me in a situation where I have no choice but to end you." Harry was beginning to understand. "I cannot prevent my Death Eaters from protecting themselves, or me. And as I've said, their ignorance is what makes them malleable. I could never explain to them the merits of keeping you alive at any cost. So I say to you: Be a good, inactive little boy and do not meddle in matters you do not understand. And in return, I promise there will be no Dark Marks floating over the houses of you and yours, provided you all stay within them and mind your own business...Do we have a bargain?"

"You want me...to do nothing."

"I always knew you were a sharp one," Voldemort said drolly. 

"And if I do...nothing...you won't come after me, or the Weasleys, or the Grangers."

"That is the proposition."

"But others. You'll kill others."

"You must break eggs, my dear boy, as the saying goes."

Harry stared mutely at Voldemort. This was it. This was the answer to all his prayers, his one chance at freedom. This was his chance to turn his back on it all and be rid of the expectations and fears that haunted his life. 

But as often as he'd dreamed of this, now that it was within reach, he didn't know if he could accept it. Regardless of Dumbledore's aims, Dumbledore didn't torture and kill people. Dumbledore wasn't the tyrant Voldemort was. Harry could imagine the world under Voldemort's reign. Should he win this war, any semblance of peace or democracy would be obliterated. Finally, Harry began to truly understand what freedom meant. It was not the absence of responsibility. Freedom was the willing acceptance of it, for its own sake, for the sake have having the ability to chose one way or the other. The helplessness Harry so detested would soon be absolute should he buckle now. And he slowly realized that he'd never truly been helpless, only indulgent of the delusions of weaker men. 

Still, it was hard, so hard to refuse this. It was so difficult to convince himself his strength had not, in fact, already been spent. 

"I...I can't," he finally forced from his lips, closing his eyes. 

"Nonsense. Of course you can. It's so simple, even someone of your ineptitude can master it."

"No. I mean I won't. I won't be _your _puppet either. I won't do anything to help you."

Harry could practically feel Voldemort's momentary rage emanating from him. He seemed to swell, and the walls of the room shook as though they would fall. Harry started, but tried not to cower. However the mood was short-lived.

"It doesn't matter really," Voldemort said finally, sneering smugly. "I'll win in the end. This was simply an attempt to avoid some annoyance on my part. Either you take what I offer...or _I _take everything from you. You're changing Harry. I see it in you. I see _myself _in you. And I'll stoke those fires until they burn down to ash, until your heart's as cold as mine. You revile me for a murderer. But I tell you, I will see your hands bloody before this is over. And I will gain more satisfaction from it than you could possibly know." Harry glared at Voldemort, hating him, hating the ring of prophecy in his words. "Either way, I shall win. I don't need your spoken acquiescence right now. We have some time...Think on it. But don't think too long." 

As Harry glowered at him, Voldemort began to fade. The stone walls around them broke apart and dissolved. Harry was drifting once again in darkness, and Voldemort's soft laughter echoed through the void. 

__

Think on it, Harry...Think on it.

__


	14. Follow That Lord, and Mind You Mock Him ...

Chapter 14

Harry woke to a noise like ringing metal, which he saw with his whole body, and which was of a colour that was not a colour but all colours at once without being white. All his senses had somehow become fused. The more he struggled to orient himself in one or the other, the more confused they became. It was only when he surrendered to it that the sensation bled away. Out of the bright, prismatic light, the darkened dimensions of a room carved their shape, and as his limbs slowly remembered how to move, Harry concentrated on the sound of someone whispering nearby and the resultant tinkle of glass moving against glass. Just out of Harry's range of vision, Dumbledore busied himself with repairing the destruction done to his office. 

The office. Harry only then came to the realization he'd never left it. The dungeon cell where he'd met with Voldemort had only been an element of his own mind. It occurred to Harry that that probably meant something, symbolic and important. But he was in no mood to analyse such subtleties. He found he was draped, uncomfortably so, across Dumbledore's high-backed desk chair. From the angle his head rested against the crook of the armrest, Harry could clearly see the place where Phineas Nigellus' portrait ought to be. But the painting was gone, leaving a blaringly empty place on a wall so densely hung with portraits it otherwise seemed to be constructed from them. Harry stared at the spot, trying to muster some remorse for what he had done, but soon realized there was none in him to muster. That thought disturbed him far more than thought of act itself. 

"Awake already?"

Harry felt a hand on his shoulder but did not bother to turn and look up at the Headmaster. Neither did he offer any apologies for the devastated room. 

But then, the room wasn't devastated. Harry glanced around him as much as was possible without moving and noticed that everything had been set right. The shelves were, in comparison, somewhat bare, but to anyone unfamiliar with it, Dumbledore's office might not seem amiss in any way at all. After a silent moment, Dumbledore conjured a gurney, but Harry objected. 

"I can walk." His voice sounded strange in his ears. Rough and hollow. Dumbledore didn't appear so certain, though nonetheless vanished the gurney and moved to help Harry sit up. Again, he would have none of it. Unaided, he pushed himself upright and then shakily to his feet, grasping the desk for support. Dumbledore looked concerned, but wary, and stood a step or so away from Harry. Close enough to catch him if he stumbled, but well out of Harry's reach. Did he think Harry volatile, like a bomb than might go off with the slightest mishandling? Remembering the cold rage that had ignited in him earlier, that erupted _from _him to lay waste to every fragile thing in sight, Harry wasn't so sure that wasn't the truth. He didn't know himself anymore, his limits, what he was capable of. Worse, he simply didn't care. 

"Remus is waiting for you downstairs," Dumbledore offered gently. Of course. There had been a tragedy. Dumbledore was a busy man. He had people to placate, damage to control. To say Harry had been an inconvenience was a gross understatement. Harry sneered, then caught himself and shook those thoughts from his head. They weren't his, were they? Could Voldemort still be lurking somewhere in his head? Harry didn't think so. The loathing that accompanied that presence was gone. Or rather, the only loathing Harry felt now was for himself. 

Harry took a step forward but faltered, falling easily into Dumbledore's arms. He must have been far weaker than he had thought. He allowed Dumbledore to half bear him, half guide him through the office toward the stair. They were moving steadily toward the lower floors before Harry finally dared to turn and look at the old man. His countenance was sombre, as Harry had often seen it . Though, no longer did the familiar expression seem benign. It looked like a mask, gentle but completely closed, masterfully concealing the firestorm of thought Harry knew to be raging behind. Harry sighed. It seemed he was to be left with no object of security. The reassurance he'd always felt at this man's very presence was utterly gone. The arm that supported him, though strong and steady, afford no comfort. It may as well have belonged to any faceless stranger. It may as well have been made of wood. 

The gentle grind of stone on stone echoing up the narrow shaft mercifully lulled these thoughts from Harry's mind. He was so very tired of thinking. He just wanted to be, alone and undisturbed. But as they neared the lowest floor, the hypnotic sound of the stair was interrupted by a broken wail. Unlike Hermione's scream on the train, however, Harry had heard this sound before. Stepping out into the corridor, they were met by a sight that, had he been himself, would have taken the heart of Harry. 

Remus and Charlie Weasley flanked Charlie's mother, her hair mussed as though she had been tearing at it and so distraught she could not stand on her own. The sight was made all the more pathetic by the respective shabbiness of her bastions. Mrs. Weasley's small chubby hand was clawing at Charlie's worn dragonhide coat and her face was buried in the fur lining, making it a mess where she rubbed her tear-soaked cheek into it. She seemed completely unaware of Remus who was stroking her back comfortingly. A disjointed murmuring drew Harry's gaze from the tableau and over to Mr. Weasley, who Harry found slumped against the stone sill of a nearby window. He was dishevelled, looking as though he'd slept in his clothes, and his expression was vague and distant, as though he didn't really know where he was. 

"Molly dear, don't...don't cry. T'will be alright," he murmured to the floor in front of him, his back actually turned to his wife. "We'll come through this somehow. I imagine we'll...we'll..." He trailed off. Fred, standing close by his side, lay a hand on his shoulder and patted lightly. As long as he had known him, Harry had never seen the young man so forlorn. Harry found it almost frightening to see the normally grinning face completely devoid of its mischievous light. Mr. Weasley woke to the touch as if only just noticing Fred's approach, but when he lifted his head he didn't turn it to his son, but muttered to the empty air as though Fred stood before him and not behind.

"Jolly good that you're here. Yes. Your brothers should be here soon as well. But it's ruddy messy business, apparating cross countries. I imagine Bill will have to arrange a portkey, and Charlie-"

"Charlie's here, Dad," Fred reminded him gently. "He's arrived already. You spoke to him, remember?"

"Did I? Oh. Well. Where's your sister then? Where's Ginny? Doesn't she know what's happened? Oh, what if she doesn't. I...I don't know how we shall ever break it to her," he muttered sadly. "Such a delicate thing. Where's she got to then?"

Fred took a deep, patient breath. "She's in the infirmary, Dad. I told you. She's had a nasty bump on the head."

"Oh dear!"

"No, it's _all right_, Dad," he soothed. "She'll be fine. George is with her. George is watching over her until she wakes up."

Mr. Weasley sighed with relief and nodded slightly. "Good. Good," he mumbled, still to the floor. "Your brother would have liked that. He was always so protective of her. He'd have been with her himself, I'm sure, if he was...i-if he...." With that, Mr. Weasley couldn't say anymore and his voice faded into wheezing sobs, face falling into his hand. Fred patted his shoulder again, eyes scrunched shut with tears of his own. The utter sadness of the scene was so immense Harry couldn't take it all in. He could only watch, dumbstruck. 

Bill was on his way, and George was with Ginny in the hospital wing. But that still left one Weasley unaccounted for. Harry scanned the corridor and spied Percy standing slumped and dejected by a torch column, his tear reddened eyes studying his distraught family members in turn. Timidly, he shuffled over to stand before Mr. Weasley.

"Father?" 

Mr. Weasley seemed not to notice his son, only mumbled something incoherent. Though, Fred did raise a look to his brother, one decidedly less critical and more forgiving than Harry had seen him grace him with in quite some time. Percy swallowed and turned to shuffle over to his Mother, and reached out a hand as if he might lay it on her arm.

"Mother." 

Mrs. Weasley woke to the address, eyes wide as in disbelief. She turned the look on Percy, never releasing Charlie's jacket. "Don't you call me that," she said shakily through her sobs. Percy shook his head in mild confusion. 

"Mother, I don't-"

"This is _your _fault!" she cried. "Yours and that bungling bastard you worship, _Cornelius Fudge. _You let this happen!" Percy looked horrified.

"Now, _Molly_," Remus objected gently, scowling at her, but she paid no more attention to him than before. 

"We told you!" she wailed on. "We _told _you You-Know-Who was back, but you ignored us...and got your brother _killed_! If that...that..." She balled her fist in Charlie's fur as though she meant to tear it out. She couldn't seem to find a name nasty enough for the former minister. "...If _he _had taken any precautions at all then, this would _never _have happened. Wanted to feel like _big, important _men did you?" she frowned, shaking her head. "You knew it all didn't you? Well how does it feel now? How do you like knowing you murdered your own brother?!" 

"_Mum_," Percy whined, lips quivering, and started to timidly reach for her again. 

"Don't you touch me!" she screeched. "_You are no son of mine_." It was almost a growl. At first, Percy was too stunned to do anything but stand and gape at her. Finally, he stumbled back, wounded to the core, and turned and fled some ways up the hall, away from his mother's venom. "You killed him!" she shouted after him, dissolving into complete hysterics. "You killed my boy!" Fred abandoned his father to help Remus and Charlie calm her. Mr. Weasley turned a dreamy, unfocused gaze over at the ruckus. Molly was only quieted when Bill came running down the corridor, giving a Percy an inquisitive glance as he passed him where he had sunk to his knees and now cried into his hands. Mrs. Weasley subdued instantly as her eldest son strode up to wrap her in a tight, protective embrace.

"What am I going to do?" she moaned into Bill's lapel. "My baby's gone. My baby..." 

Harry was speechless. He'd never been a part of a family. He'd never realized just how close the Weasleys were, how deeply they must be hurting now. Harry watched the scene like he was at a cinema, as if strangely detached from it. His heart ached for the family the players portrayed. Harry's heart ached for himself that no one would ever grieve that way for him. It ached until it burst, and all feeling slowly bled away from him. He felt cold, though the air was warm. The icy seeds of resentment had been sown in his bleeding heart. They had cauterised it. 

When the situation with Mrs. Weasley was resolved, Remus finally had the opportunity to catch sight of Harry and Dumbledore waiting with respectful silence to be noticed. With one last glance at the distraught family to reassure himself he was no longer needed, Remus strode over to them. The look he bestowed on Harry as he approached was one of deepest sympathy and concern, and his eyes crinkled just so at the corners, punctuating the feeling conveyed in his clear amber eyes. It made Harry shiver. Remus opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't seem to find the proper words. There were no proper words really. So he only wet his lips, as if drawing back the unspoken sentiment in favour of a warm embrace. For some reason, despite the circumstances, Phineas' words woke in Harry's ears. 

__

"Nancy. Bestial. Faggot."

"We were lovers, Harry."

"He ruined my lineage and now I imagine he'll want to ruin your father's."

"Because Sirius is dead you can't touch me? Because he's dead you can't look at me?" 

Remus' eyes on him back in his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. 

Harry wrenched away from Remus' embrace, a bit more violently than he had intended. Remus didn't try to conceal the hurt on his face as Harry shied again when he reached out to him a second time for a milder contact. Harry turned his head sheepishly, almost ashamed of himself, but was unrelenting in his determination that the man would not touch him. 

"Remus, would you?" Dumbledore asked tactfully. "I really must," he elaborated, gesturing toward the gathering down the hall. Remus, though still distracted by the exchange with Harry, pulled is questioning gaze from Harry's face long enough to nod vaguely at Dumbledore. "Yes, of course." Dumbledore released Harry, and when satisfied the youth could stand on his own, strode swiftly over to the Weasleys. 

"Well," Remus said softly, cautiously, still visibly shaken by Harry's rejection. "Let's get you to the hospital wing, shall we?"

"No," Harry said plainly. He didn't want to be surrounded by more weeping, wounded people. Besides, he wasn't hurt, just tired, and weakly he told Remus so. 

"I'll see you to your dormitory then," Remus offered understandingly. Harry shook his head. He didn't want to see his roommates either, didn't think he could bear the sight of Ron's empty bed next to his. Remus, patient but at a lose, shook his head slightly. "Where would you go then, Harry?" The gentle affection in his voice made Harry wince. 

He didn't know where he wanted to go, or where he could go. But he knew he couldn't stand here in the hallway all evening. He had to make his decision quickly though, as the Weasleys were approaching en mass, shepherded by Dumbledore toward his office. Harry simply could not bare to speak with any of them. Panic and despair blossomed in him. He didn't have it in him to figure this one out, he didn't have the will to. He only wanted to stand and do nothing and have things somehow work themselves out without him making any kind of effort at all. If only he could be so fortunate. Something stirred in the shadows to Harry's left. 

There stood Professor Snape, rigid as ever, but, surprisingly, not so severe. He looked down on Harry with an expression Harry couldn't quite read. It was neither pitying nor mocking, which almost made Harry dread what the man seemed about to say even more. But his fear was soon replaced with surprise.

"Follow me," was all Snape said in a low, mild tone before turning to glide down the corridor. Neither Harry nor Remus questioned him. The timbre of his voice had cast a sort of spell on Harry's muscles, so that they carried him forward with no regard for Harry's own wishes. He was so weak he was surprised he even still stood, yet there he was, moving after Snape, pulled down the corridors as if on a leash. Remus' hand hovered near Harry's back, propelling him forward as surely as Snape pulled him. Harry was grateful for it though. Like magnets turned at wrong ends, Harry's reluctance of Remus touch, his own stubborn determination, helped steady him more surely than if Remus had actually held him. 

Harry was strangely grateful for all of it, really. He was so content to be lead, to exist for a moment in the absence of any kind of decision, that they were well within the dungeons before he even took note of their surroundings or wondered on their destination. Snape's classroom lay at the edge of the dungeons, and Harry had only ventured further into them on one occasion. But it seemed that had already moved well past the Slytherin common room. Glancing about him in some state slightly more neutral than curiosity, Harry wondered vaguely how the Slytherins ever managed to navigate this labyrinth. There were no portraits on the walls, no suits of armour or statues. Each shadowed and sinister passage looked the same. Harry was lost. He realized with a strange kind of cool acceptance that he now relied entirely on the man before him and his seeming intrinsic knowledge of this place. Snape moved smoothly through the corridors, never vacillating on which turn to make or when. Harry tried to follow Snape with as much confidence as the man exuded himself, but eventually decided it best not to think on it at all. Never mind the route. Just follow. Don't lose sight of the billowing, swishing figure. Though, Harry couldn't help thinking. He couldn't stop himself from musing about how perfectly suited Snape was this environment. It was as oppressive and mysterious and as subtly dangerous as he was. Though somehow, just at the moment, neither bothered Harry. This place suited his mood. Dark places were good for dark thoughts and dark moods. And the way Harry was feeling now, he thought he might not care to see the sun ever again. 

Finally, Snape halted before a depression in the corridor wall, identical to several they had passed already, and cast an uneasy glance at Harry as though loathe to reveal too much to him. Harry tried to express, with his unfocused, half-lidded stare, that he couldn't care less about Snape's secrets and only wanted to reach the end of their little quest before he collapsed. Still, Snape regarded him a few moments more before delivering the password in a rushed, unintelligible whisper. As though the stones had been mist stirred aside by a breath of wind, a door appeared in the depression. Snape tapped it once with his wand and it fell open without a sound, and he strode inside as though it was simply understood the two should follow. 

Harry was slightly hesitant to step over the threshold. It was fairly obvious that they were in Snape's private quarters, but why in blazes? Harry was suddenly not quite so apathetic, but left off wondering why he's been brought here to take in his surroundings. Snape's rooms looked much as Harry might have imagined them, should he have previously given them any thought at all. The sitting room (if it could really be considered that, seeing as there were no chairs but one wooden stool and it stood before the desk in the corner) was plain. Utterly. The only signs of inhabitancy were the few neat stacks of parchments on the desktop beside the recently lit lamp. There was a small bookshelf packed with very old, very well read books, but most of the titles were impossible to read for the thick layer of dust that covered all but a few of them. There wasn't even a rug on the stone floor. It was bare except for the well travelled paths worn into the stones that led from the door to the desk, and from the desk to one of the doors leading from the sitting room, which Harry guessed to be Snape's bedroom. There was no cosy chair by the fireplace, and the fireplace itself looked as though it had never been used, though a jar of floo powder did sit on the mantle. Seeing the empty hearth somehow made Harry cold. 

Remus radiated heat near Harry's elbow, but that heat Harry was avoiding, and he moved aside to let Remus through the door. He passed Harry and moved to the centre of the room, appearing either very familiar with the place or completely uninterested. He regarded Snape with a gentle question in his eyes, but the man ignored him and spoke to Harry.

"This way," he prompted curtly, opening one of the two doors (Harry suspected the third to be a closet) leading from the room. This door was not the one the worn paths lead to, and so curiosity (or was it spite?) turned Harry's gaze to the other. It was open only a crack, but Harry spied several heavy locks, all of which latched from the inside. _Paranoid much, Snape? _Snape followed Harry's gaze and swiftly strode over to shut the other door with a snap, casting Harry a sharp look. 

"_This _way," he repeated, his voice almost threatening, as he moved back to Harry's door and pushed it open further. 

"Is that your bedroom, then?" Harry asked waving a finger at the door with the locks.

"And just _how _many bedrooms do you think I have here in 'Snape Manor'?" Snape clipped and rolled his eyes. Harry was confused. Snape waved his wand impatiently and a lamp ignited in the room, revealing a bed and nightstand. Remus nodded his head, urging Harry forward. 

This new room was as plain as the other. White sheets shone under a dull grey wool blanket. It appeared Snape expected Harry stay here, to sleep here, in his quarters. In his bed. In this _cell_, and Harry couldn't decide if the man was being generous or punishing. 

"But where will you sleep?" Harry asked, eyeing the small bed.

"You ask as though you care, Mr. Potter," Snape replied wryly, and disappeared. He returned momentarily bearing a small vial, which he pushed in Harry's hand. "Drink this." Before Harry could even inquire what it was, Snape had already left again. Harry turned in time to catch a glimpse of Remus giving him a concerned but reassuring look before Snape shut the door between them with an echoing clank not unlike that of prison bars. 


	15. Grating So Harshly All His Days of Quiet

A/N: Un-beta'd. Unnamed. But it's something, huh? I'm working on finding a beta right now. I've just been out of the swing and felt compelled to post *something* (and yes, on the last update I just decided to lengthen that chapter. I think someone asked.)

Chapter Fifteen

The Dreamless Sleep draught Snape gave him worked as well as any Pomfrey ever had. Though, Harry supposed that stood to reason. Snape must be responsible for stocking the infirmary stores, in addition to his teaching duties. And Harry had taken more than his fair share of all those cupboards had to offer. No small wonder the man was so easily exasperated by him. Keeping up with all of Harry's various mishaps, medicinally and otherwise, was likely a full time job in itself. And so Harry also supposed Snape had been his saviour more times over than he had previously reckoned, if only in a less direct way. Though it wasn't as if the man was gracious about it. He could practically hear Snape grumbling about Harry's carelessness as he bottled yet more salve for the infirmary stores. Of course, it isn't like Harry had _asked _the greasy git to go above and beyond. He certainly didn't _like _Snape ghosting his steps and nosing into his business. Harry quite felt he could do without that kind of assistance. And as far as the medicine was concerned, well Harry didn't enjoy taking it, or having occasion to, anymore than Snape did making it. As Harry threw back a second round of the draught, having been awake for a whole ten minutes (too long) he wondered that Snape even bothered. But then, he supposed it was a matter of necessity. He wondered, too, why he was even so concerned with the matter just now. Though it seemed better to fume on this than surrender to the nagging of the several other, even less pleasant thoughts from the back of his mind, where he intend to keep them locked. 

Each time Harry woke, a fresh vial of the potion was waiting for him on the tiny bedside table, as was a tray of food, likely magicked to stay warm till he woke to consume it, though the latter of these Harry invariably ignored. Eating held absolutely no interest, and he doubted he could keep anything down for very long. Just smelling the steaming broth and buttered bread sitting so close sickened him, and he was tempted, more than once, to fling it toward the far wall. There were times, as well, when he felt like doing the same to the potion, he was so thoroughly irritated by the thought that they were keeping him sedated, like some psychotic on the closed ward. He didn't suppose he could blame them really. Harry didn't know himself what he might do, or was capable of doing, though that did little to lessen his insult. Perhaps his potentially dangerous, volatile condition was why Snape was keeping such distance, and was not found stooping over him with an irritated, impatient glare demanding that he eat. Not that it would have done him much good. Harry would only have told him to take his food and his potion and put them where the sun didn't shine…and he wouldn't be referring to the dungeons. And so it was fortunate that he left Harry alone, because in the end Harry always found there was nothing for it. He didn't _want _to ignore the draught. Instead he'd like to drink it by the bucket. When Harry was awake his body screamed for food it wouldn't tolerate. When he was awake his mind raced all too quickly toward things he wasn't prepared to confront, and he feared what dreams might come should it ever slow sufficiently to allow him natural sleep. 

After a few more potions, a few more awakenings to the same tableau, Harry's rancour toward his professor dulled a bit. Ideally, he knew he intended Harry to consume both offerings, though there were never any nasty notes admonishing him for his untouched plate. Realistically, it seemed he was giving Harry his choice, and for this, Harry could not be ungrateful. 

There were no windows in his small, subterranean prison, no clocks ticking on the wall, no way at all to reckon the passage of time. It was always night here, and Harry had no idea how long he'd been cloistered. Though he didn't care really. Time became abstract, not the rigid, harsh thing he'd known it to be when there were things like classes to attend and meals to be taken and schedules to be obeyed. Time was a lulling, indifferent sea in which he drifted on a fickle tide of consciousness. There was little to ground Harry in the here and now, whatever that was, save for the occasional bit of noise from the other rooms. There was never much to be heard, save the turning of locks or the scratch of quill on parchment. 

Though once, Harry woke to the sound of voices. Snape's low timbre cared well through the empty rooms. If one could ignore the words, that voice was so very sedative, relaxing, might have caressed Harry back to sleep…should Harry have been able to ignore the words. Which he could not. At first, in his grogginess, Harry thought the man might have been talking to himself. And his amusement at this possible eccentricity was enough to make him listen more closely, at which time he did notice a second voice. Though, this other voice was echoic and distant. Too much so to be blamed on the stone walls. Harry realized it must be coming from within the hearth. Considering this, the second voice was far too soft spoken for Harry to decipher a word, but somehow he recognized…or rather simply _knew _somehow…that it belonged to Remus. Harry wondered fleetingly at the shiver that ran up his spine with the recognition, though told himself it must only be due to the knowledge that the two men were speaking about him. 

"I don't know that we shouldn't just tell the boy and have done with it," Snape complained, obviously quite put out. "He's too bloody nosy to remain oblivious for much longer. If nothing else, thanks to you and that little stunt you pulled with them in class, Granger will no doubt put two and two together soon enough and spell it out for him. There's no knowing what he might do when that happens, without someone there to administer the proper threats." Remus' reply was indistinct but reproachful.

"Oh all right. The proper _warnings_. Though I do think it might be wise to put a bit of fear into him. He obviously doesn't appreciate the simple concept of consequence, or how great they would be in this situation."

He wasn't sure, but Harry thought Remus was defending him. He quelled his gratitude, however, like an altar boy quells a lustful thought at mass. He was still quite too sleepy to remember why he felt the need. 

"Treating him like an adult does not automatically make him one," Snape argued. Harry could hear the sneer of disgust in his voice. "Merlin knows you lot should have figured this out by now." Remus was arguing again. Harry felt compelled to listen at the door, but convinced himself it was his still sleep heavy limbs that deterred him, and not his fear that he might actually be eager to hear the sound of Remus voice, and not his words, more clearly. 

"Yes. Of course I know the Headmaster's stance on the issue, and as in several others, I do not quite agree." 

Why on earth did Remus sound so worried? What were they talking about? What was it Harry shouldn't know?

"Well, it _is _your responsibility to prepare the boy in these matters, Lupin," Snape said, sounding somewhat resigned. "And it is a lesson he will need to learn. I've persuaded Rainy here, but…" Remus interrupted, sounding absolutely adamant about something.

"No. But there are others. And the Dark Lord has commissioned me personally to seek them out and sway them to his cause…Just as before." Whatever Snape was referring to, he seemed extremely bitter about it. More so than Harry could ever recall him being before. Which was saying quite a bit. "I cannot fail at it forever. Either I will have to go about the errand earnestly to avoid suspicion, or he Dark Lord will find another to do it in my stead. And I think you might understand why I'd rather that not happen." Harry thought he might as well, remembering Bella's cry in the Ministry. _MASTER, I TRIED, I TRIED--DO NOT PUNISH ME-- _Harry was just now comprehending the situation Snape must be putting himself in on the Order's behalf…at Dumbledore's request…

Severus, you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready . . . if you are prepared ...

Harry was finding his forced indifference toward the man was turning to dislike, despite that he was trying desperately to will it otherwise. 

"As it is," Snape continued to Remus, with Harry listening more intently now. "I've claimed my duties here are too demanding for me to travel abroad, and the Dark Lord certainly doesn't want to compromise my position in relation to the Headmaster." Snape's voice became dark and dreading. "But he will succeed in this Lupin, with my help or no. He's already made progress with the werewolves, as I'm sure you may be aware. The half races are resentful toward wizardkind, ripe for this conversion, and the Dark Lord is all too aware of this. Surely _you _understand that. I understand it perfectly myself, and were that my personal circumstances otherwise…" Was Remus being accusing? That was a rarity. 

"Of course not," Snape spat in response. "You know where my loyalties lie. And you know ruddy well _why_. Don't be ridiculous." Yes, that apologetic tone suited Remus much better Harry thought. 

"Well, I have no suggestions on how _else _to proceed, except just as we have been. Though mark my words, that boy will be the death of me, if not us all…. Spare me. You are as stubborn as your flea-bitten former compatriots…. Oh, so be it," Snape clipped sardonically. "Potter is brilliant and discerning and will be our bloody saviour. Now if you will excuse me, I have to slave over our fearless knight-in-bloody-armour's fresh batch of bottled _coma_." Harry was rather impressed that Remus could convey so much hostility without uttering a word. Remus suddenly gone, and there was a slamming of heavy doors and the turn of locks that rang in the abrupt stillness. 

With no hesitation whatsoever, Harry reached over and seized his ration of 'bottled coma', unstopping it and downing it to the very last drop. 


	16. To Sleep Perchance To Dream

Chapter Sixteen: To Sleep Perchance To Dream  
  
The problem with not dreaming, Harry realized, is that one wakes to the thoughts they went to sleep with. It was almost like blinking, an hours long blink, and the madness he sought to escape through unconsciousness was waiting for him when he woke, like a demon perched on his bedpost. The sleep brought by the draught was only for his body. But it was his mind that kept him bedridden.   
  
There was simply too much to process, too many doubts and fears and thoughts and questions and memories. He couldn't distinguish them anymore. They lost their form and became mental and emotional static, and his impulses toward them were so numbered and contrary that he couldn't do anything at all. He wanted to scream, and to cry, and to laugh all at the same time, but he couldn't, so he did none of them at all. For hours at a time he lay staring at his ceiling, unable to even reach over and fumble blindly for the potion. It didn't drive away the noise in his brain, only delayed it by some degree that Harry could not even measure. He would blink, and it would be back.   
  
Harry would have thought himself crazy, were it not for the very calm, clear, reasonable voice in the back of his mind telling him so. Crazy people don't know they are crazy do they? They can't be so objective about it. So surely the voice that reasoned he was going insane was proof that he wasn't. Not yet. Not entirely.   
  
Coincidently, it was this voice that convinced Harry to stop taking the potion entirely. It wasn't helping anything after all, was it? And once he stopped taking the draught, Harry started to sleep. Real sleep. And at least the nightmares had some shape, some sense of coherence, even if it couldn't quite be grasped after waking.   
  
That same voice also convinced him to start eating, told him he might as well, since it seemed obvious that he wouldn't succeed in simply willing his heart to stop beating. If he couldn't die by laying, if he had to continue, he should eat, just until he was released, so he could be strong enough to stop his heart properly, by more proven means.   
  
However, once Harry started eating and sleeping real sleep, which gave his madness an avenue of release through dreams, where it could define itself and so play itself out, Harry began to feel better.   
  
He couldn't quite say when the potion had stopped appearing with his meals, but eventually, Harry realized that it had. And then those too stopped coming, and in their place, Harry found a fresh change of clothes with a note directing him to the washroom as "obviously he'd been too lazy to locate it himself before now."  
  
Harry wasn't entirely sure he was ready for this, to pick up where he left off and resume his 'normal' routine. Yet, there was something extremely sobering about peeling back his sheets and discovering he was still fully dressed in the outfit he'd donned the morning he'd left Grimmauld Place. That morning seemed so long ago Harry might otherwise have thought he'd dreamed it. Seeing the mud on his trouser knees where he'd landed outside the train was almost unreal, like waking from a dream and finding a glass slipper in one's pocket. Or more fittingly, like waking from a nightmare and finding a corpse in one's bed.   
  
Feeling decidedly and unpleasantly in need of a wash, Harry rolled out of bed, undoing buttons as he went, shedding his clothes with many-levelled revulsion. Within moments he had stripped completely and tossed the things aside, along with all remaining thoughts of what had happened while he had worn them, like a snake shedding its skin, shuffling off what no longer served him in order to forge his armour afresh. Harry wondered if Snape might burn them. He wouldn't out it past the man. Harry hoped he would.   
  
Oblivious to the chill dungeon air on his bare skin, Harry gathered his clean clothes and made for the door. When the knob turned easily in his hand, Harry was more than a little surprised. Had it only been his fancy that it had ever been locked in the first place? Had he made himself a prisoner? Stepping through the door didn't feel like escape, really. More like his cell had simply been expanded.  
  
According to the note, the bathroom was to be found behind the third door Harry had previously mistaken to be a wardrobe. Having located it, however, Harry's need of a wash lost its sense of urgency. The curiosity he felt when first he stepped into this room was renewed by the lamp shining beckoningly on the corner desk, and Harry shifted his bundle to one arm and ambled over to investigate.   
  
So this was where all those caustic remarks scrawled on Harry's schoolwork, outlining his ineptitude, had been composed all these years. This was where Snape graded, where the Snark Muse resided, perched on the handle of the modest looking scroll top to whisper in Snape's ear, his own personal thesaurus of offence. The desktop was covered even now with neat piles of essays. Harry thumbed through them. Sheet after sheet of scrawled, ink spotted and smudged parchment still glistened with red ink like fresh blood, having been recently and thoroughly eviscerated by the Potions master's merciless quill. It seemed Snape felt little inclination to lighten his lesson plan in light of recent events. Harry would be behind when he started back to classes. These particular essays, though, were first years', and Harry mused on the simplicity of the subject matter he had struggled with his own first year. Amazing really. Harry hadn't been aware he'd ever really learned anything in Snape's class. He certainly hadn't intended to. Making it through the bi-weekly ordeal in the dungeons had seemed more a matter of survival than one of education. Though apparently he'd absorbed the facts presented despite himself. They were inexorably connected to particular remarks Harry could never forget.  
  
_Only a simpleton could confuse Cardamon, a warming agent, with Cascara, an anti-inflammatory. Really Mister Potter, your idiocy astounds me sometimes, even in comparison to our Mister Longbottom here. _  
  
Harry scanned the essays idly, his lip twitching into an almost-smile at one boy's misinterpretation of the use of Asphodel and Snape's cutting remarks in response. A new generation was getting their first taste of his bittersharp brand of teaching. Harry might almost have felt sorry for them, if he had been capable of summoning any kind of feeling at all just then.   
  
Growing bored of the essays, Harry's eyes wandered over to the nearby bookshelf. It was small but heavily laden with books of every size, colour, and thickness. A quarter-inch of dust obscured many of the names, and Harry reached out a single finger to push it aside, almost surprised the ancient bindings didn't fall way with the grey powder. Title after title was uncovered by his irreverent digit, as though he were prodding the slumbering old tomes back to life. He needed Hermione, he thought. Most all of these names were in Latin. She could descipher them easily enough. At the moment, however, it was simply beyond Harry. There were a few in what resembled English, though. To Drenk of the Rivre Styx, Siense of the Blod, Slave of Deth. Trust Snape to keep something so morbid so close at hand.   
  
Harry's inspection was interrupted by a small clank that echoed in the stillness behind him. He spun toward it, eyeing all of the doors suspiciously, but the only one not shut tight was his own. Both the noise and the books were promptly forgotten when Harry's gaze fell on the mysterious locked door. Harry's willpower had not recovered enough for him to ignore this temptation, and he felt himself drawn toward it. Anything Snape felt compelled to secure so thoroughly was surely worth a peek. Pressing his ear to the wood, Harry could hear absolutely nothing going on on the other side of it. He stepped back and gave the door an appraising look, as if sizing up an opponent. With Snape apparently gone, he might manage to get it open if he worked quickly enough. Though, knowing Snape, it was likely sealed with more than just locks. Harry hesitated, not quite sure he was willing to exert the energy needed to get past those things. The stickiness of his thighs against one another as he shifted his weight on his feet reminded him that he was still in need of a bath, and also that he was presently standing in the middle of Snape's quarters completely starkers, with no furniture to leap behind should his host suddenly return.   
  
Harry sighed and turned toward the washroom again, but failed to make more progress than that. His curiosity gnawed at him, and he glanced over his shoulder at the door's handle, soon finding his hand moving toward it, more of its own volition than any decision of Harry's. It was locked anyway, so it couldn't hurt to try to turn it, could it? Just once. Just to placate his impulse. When he heard the click of the latch releasing, Harry dropped his clothes in surprise. That wasn't supposed to have happened. What was he supposed to do now? Harry stood there for what seemed like forever, holding the knob in place, debating. Finally, he wet his lips and glanced nervously over both shoulders, as though making sure he was really alone. Slowly and carefully, Harry brought his foot up to brace himself against the frame and pulled.   
  
With some effort, the door gave a fraction of an inch. Harry swallowed and took a deep breath. One good yank, that was all he'd need, and the door would be open. But even as he mustered his determination, the door pulled out of his grasp, suddenly snapping shut again. Harry gasped and sprang back as no less than four locks turned loudly and in quick succession and loud bang sounded, as of a crossbar falling into place. After he recovered, Harry clamoured forward to retrieve his fallen clothes and scrambled ungracefully for the washroom door, which he slammed shut and locked behind him, pressing the entire length of his body against it until his heart stilled. Harry waited for it, but no other sound came from the sitting room. Nothing was coming to punish him. No Snape. Gradually, Harry allowed himself to relax. And then, having done so, Harry realized he had to piss. Very badly.   



	17. These Are But Wild and Whirling Words

Chapter Seventeen: These Are But Wild and Whirling Words

Harry positioned himself over the toilet on unsteady legs. It was clear the deed would not be done quickly, and Harry propped himself in place with one hand on the back of the tank and let his head sink between his shoulders. He left his body to relieve itself, and wondered a bit on Snape, and what he would do when he found out Harry had been snooping, or if he would find out at all. If he did, he'd probably flay him. Though, Harry reasoned it might have been worth it. He'd been so close. And the incident had left him feeling almost…giddy. Alive. Pity the sensation couldn't have lasted longer. It seemed to drain out of him with the steady yellow stream into the dusty bowl below him. 

And the bowl was very dusty. Harry lifted his hand from the tank and saw his fingers were coated with it now too. Odd. The toilet didn't look dirty really, so much as unused. As did everything else in the small room now that Harry took the time to look around him. As he gave himself a final shake, he glanced over at the taps of bathtub faucet and saw them covered in rust, wondered if they even still turned or when was the last time they had been. It looked to be a while. Considering Snape's eternally greasy hair, Harry could not say he was exactly surprised. 

However, they did turn, with a minimum of creaking, and the water they dispensed ran warm and clear. 

It's interesting how one can not quite realize just how weary they are until they lower themselves into a hot bath. Though he had just literally just slept for days, (or perhaps because of it) Harry found he was exhausted. That short but extreme burst of terror likely hadn't helped matters either. Harry felt as though he'd just fought an epic battle. In a way, he reasoned, perhaps he had. 

Harry relaxed back against the cool wall of the tub and let his stiffness dissolve into the steaming water, resolving to never move again. Snape apparently didn't use this room. The greasy git could just stride his little paths back and forth from his desk to his room of mysteries, and Harry could become a fixture he ignored, like the shampoo and faucets. Harry actually smiled at his little fantasy, actually began convincing himself it was a good and practical plan…until the water went cold, and he realized he'd have to move anyway, either retrieve his wand and magic it warm or else to refresh the water manually. He opted for the latter, as it demanded much less effort, despite that it was more temporary. The former would require him to actually climb _out of _the tub. Still, he moved as little was possible, using his toes to tug at the drain plug and work the faucets. The newly warm water revived his paralytic daydreams, and Harry leaned his head back and dozed. 

__

The train wasn't moving. Because the train wasn't made to move. The train was made of stone, cold and hard under his bare feet, dark grey and forbidding like the bricks of the dungeons. Everything was made of them, even the seats and the compartment door that could never be closed. Confused, Harry wandered out of his little room and looked out of the corridor window, wondering where he was. 

The low light from the sconces, ones that looked as though they had been thieved from the very walls of Grimmauld Place, leaked through the cracked and dirty glass, but fell on nothing, only bled away infinitely into the thin darkness without. Harry felt his heart beat harder before he recognized the fear creeping over him. There was something he ought to be doing, someone he ought to be looking for. Harry peered down the carriage corridor, but it seemed to have no end. Both directions looking exactly the same, Harry decided on his right and began searching. His inspection was slow and thorough at first, but soon built until he was running headlong down the narrow passage, quickly scanning each compartment as he passed. 

"Ron?" he called, but was answered only by his own echo. "Ron!" Amid the slap of his feet on the stone and the blood rushing in his ears, Harry came to notice a small noise and froze, struggling to make it out over his own panicked breathing. It sounded almost like…yes. Someone was crying, faintly, somewhere far behind him. 

No. No surely it wasn't too late. Harry turned and sprinted back the way he came, but got nowhere. The carriage seemed to simply extend in front of him, the floor expanded beneath his feet, so that two doors appeared beside him for every one he should have already passed. Defeated, Harry stumbled to a stop and fell to his knees, hanging his head, and began to weep more easily and freely than he had ever in his life. "There's too much," he moaned. "Ron. I'm sorry. There are just too many."

The crying still sounded, though it took a moment for Harry to realize it was louder now, and that it was not simply his own echoing back at him. Casting his down-turned eyes to the compartment beside him, Harry spied a figure kneeling within. Hesitantly, Harry stopped crying and drew himself to his feet to crept closer.

"H-Hermione?"

But it wasn't Hermione. A fair head bobbed between narrow, slumped shoulders. 

"_Malfoy_," Harry growled. And Malfoy lifted his silver head, turning to Harry, a malicious grin splitting is pale face. He wasn't crying at all. He was _laughing_. 

"What have you done with her?" Harry demanded, taking the boy roughly by both arms and wrenching him to his feet. But Malfoy only laughed harder until Harry, incensed, began to shake him. He shook him so violently that his slicked hair fell in stiff clumps into his pointed face, so violently Harry was sure he would soon snap the boy's thin neck.

"Answer me, damn you!"

"It-It's too late!" Malfoy finally managed between sniggers. Harry held him still so he could continue, but Malfoy only sneered as though the gesture disgusted him and said, "You're so bloody predictable, Potter."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry snapped. "What are you talking about? Why did you say it was too late? Too late for what?" Malfoy grinned triumphantly and snorted.

"It's too late because our traitorous master is dead already. He has been since before you were born. Still, the both of you should fetch our forgiveness from the Dark Lord."

Harry shook his head, not understanding, and dropped Malfoy to the ground like a piece of dripping rubbish. 

"You're mad," he said, shaking his head. "You're completely raving."

Malfoy's only answer was to point up at Harry and begin laughing again, on and on until Harry almost gave into his urge to start kicking him. But even as he drew his foot back with a snarl, a sharp rap sounded on the stone frame of the compartment door. Harry turned to find Snape standing calmly in the corridor. How did he get there?

"Let me in, Harry."

"But if I do that, you'll kill me," Harry replied, wondering how he knew this. 

"It will kill you if you don't. Let me in, Harry." Harry was disconcerted. Malfoy still cackled from the floor at his feet. Snape knocked again. 

"Harry." _Knock knock knock. _

"What is going on?!" Harry bellowed, bringing his hands to his ears. Malfoy wheezed for breath. Snape rapped again.

"Let me in, Harry."

"But I can't!" 

"Yes you can, Harry. You must." Malfoy was laughing harder than ever. 

"No! I mean I can't let you in. There's no door! What are you waiting for?"

"You have to invite me." 

"What? Why?" _Ha ha ha ha ha! Knockknockknock_

"WHAT'S GOING ON? Have you all gone mad?! This doesn't make any sense!" 

__

HahahahaknockhahaknockHAHAHAKNOCK!

"Just go away!"

Knock knock KNOCK

Harry woke with a start. He was freezing. The water he sat in had long since gone cold and he shivered, shaking the strange dream from his head as he leaned forward to pull the plug to replace it, but a sharp, loud knock at the bathroom door startled him and made him drop the chain. 

"Harry! Harry answer me! Are you all right! Harry let me in," came a frantic, muffled voice on the other side of the door and the knob rattled as though someone was trying to rip it off. Harry had to take a moment to still his nerves, but it was cut short when it sounded as though Remus had had enough and was attempting to break down the door. 

"I'm here! Remus, I'm all right," Harry called testily. Sudden silence, and then finally Harry thought he heard a ragged, relieved sigh and a body falling to rest against the door. 

Then, just as testily, "What on earth-"

"I dozed off," Harry explained before Remus could set in. "I was sleeping."

"Sleeping? Harry I've been pounding on this door for five minutes."

Whoa. Harry must have been more comfortable than he had thought. "I'm. I'm sorry?" he called back. More silence, and then another weary sigh. "That's dangerous, you know. You might have-"

"Give me five more minutes," Harry cut him off, reaching for his soap. He'd had enough of his bath, but might as well do what he'd come to before abandoning it. With no other objections, Harry heard Remus pull himself off the door, his footsteps fading toward the sitting room. Certain he was going to be unbothered for a moment, Harry refreshed his water one last time. 

When he was finished, Harry found Remus was waiting patiently in the sitting room with his hands held courteously behind his back, studying Snape's bookshelf from a generous distance, almost like someone viewing exhibits in a museum. Harry almost felt guilty now for riffling through everything, but had to wonder just when Remus had acquired so much respect for Snape and his belongings. Though, perhaps that was exactly Remus' way, to stay neatly out of other people's affairs, to not dirty his hands, even if it meant letting his friends harass harmless schoolmates without provocation. Harry checked himself. Since when had he started sympathizing with Snape? He quickly reminded himself of his and the Potions master's mutual hatred, though unconsciously tugged at his baggy trousers to cover his own embarrassingly threadbare pants. 

Letting his still wet bare feet hit the stone floor with a slap as he moved further into the sitting room, Harry finally announced his presence to Remus, who turned to him with a politely expectant expression. Harry wasn't sure what kind of response we had anticipated from the man. Perhaps he hadn't been consciously aiming for one at all. He'd had no towel. That was the _real _reason he'd refrained from pulling on anything besides his loose fitting trousers. He preferred to dry before struggling into his shirt and shoes. He had no ulterior motives. So why was he so disappointed when he saw only polite apology in Remus' eyes as they grazed his form indifferently before seeking out Harry's own with a slight, forced smile?

"I'm sorry for earlier," Remus began with gentle sincerity. "When you didn't answer, I was afraid…"

__

Afraid what? That you'd find me in shallow, red-stained water still clutching the broken piece of mirror I'd slit my wrists with? Slightly unlikely. Snape didn't have a mirror. 

Remus looked away from Harry, wet his lips, and took a breath, choosing his words carefully. Harry thought he looked awfully tired. "How are you?" he asked softly, sincerely. When he pulled his eyes back to Harry's, Harry saw only compassion in them. It frustrated Harry for some reason, though his closed expression didn't change as he regarded Remus for a beat longer, as though giving the man a chance to add to the question somehow, before finally looking away. Harry swallowed and shook his head faintly. 

"Severus told us you were up and about again," Remus seemed suddenly compelled to confess. Harry looked back up at him. " If you feel up to it, there's still time to join some of the others for breakfast. It's not quite over. If you'd like, that is."

It really was just that simple wasn't it? The rest of the world functioned normally just a short stroll away, and all Harry had to do was go and join it. Harry stared silently at Remus for a long while, and the two seemed to search each other's countenance for some sort of answer, the only difference being that Harry wasn't sure of his question. 

"I'll have to at some point, won't I?" Harry asked in a dull voice, though answered himself before Remus had a chance. "I suppose I should just get on with it then."

Remus nodded thoughtfully, though neither moved. Harry cast his gaze to the floor, as though searching for his suddenly elusive determination there. Saying what he was about to do was far simpler than actually doing it. Harry didn't quite know where to begin. Though, he supposed it might do well to finish dressing. He was dry enough.

Without bothering to find a room, Harry put his arms through his sleeves and yanked them to his elbows before lifting his arms to pull his shirt over his head. And that's when he saw it. He had unexpected difficulty, but when he finally managed to wrestle the thing over his dishevelled cranium, Harry just caught Remus' stare, hungrily chasing the last of Harry's bare flesh as it disappeared beneath his t-shirt. 

Harry didn't smirk, though felt like it. He only stared at Remus, waiting for him to realize he'd been caught. And when Remus eyes met Harry's, his cheeks did colour if only a bit. But there was no apology left in his slightly shock-widened gaze. Surely he knew now that Harry knew. Harry _knew _his terrible secret. But having been discovered he held his ground. Harry was slightly shocked himself at how _open _Remus looked. Not quite challenging, not even inviting, but adopting a manner that seemed to say quite plainly that he would face whatever question or condemnation that came from the young man. 

But Harry didn't confront him. Quite strangely, the anger he'd felt at Remus' suspicioned intentions dissolved now that it had been confirmed. Harry wasn't sure what he was feeling now. Embarrassed? Anxious? Not really. Giddy perhaps. The moment turned very awkward, and Harry, unsure what else to do, looked away and bent to pull on his shoes. 

"Okay then," he said, straightening again. With no other conversation, Remus lead the way out of the dungeons. 


	18. For I Mine Eyes Will Rivet to His Face

****

Chapter Eighteen: For I Mine Eyes Will Rivet to His Face, We Will Both Our Judgments Join

In truth, Remus escorted Harry more than he lead him, as Harry was possessed of a sudden boldness and dared to walk more at Remus' side than trailing along behind him. As they travelled, Harry caught himself, several times, chancing glances over at his guardian and scolded himself each time, as he was, more than once, caught in the act by Remus. Though eventually Harry noticed that half of the time Remus' eyes were simply already turned his way. Harry wondered at the blush that rose to his cheek at that, but was more concerned with the fact that the looks they happened to share were mutually curious, and tended to linger perhaps only a bit too long. As a result, Harry once almost collided with a wall as Remus shepherded him into a turn. A turn that was revealed to be an incorrect one soon after, and Remus was forced to fish in his breast pocket for a scrap of parchment to consult.

The parchment was very tattered, though not particularly old by Harry's guess. It simply looked to have been opened and refolded several times. As Remus held it up, looking about him and trying to reorient himself, Harry recognized the thing to be a hand drawn map, peppered with Snape's harsh, scratchy writing.

It didn't take them long at all to get set on the proper course again. But though they had set out from Snape's quarters fairly swiftly, they now took the journey at a stroll, likely to prevent becoming lost again. The pace suited Harry just fine. Though, while not 'fond' of them, Harry realized he'd become quite accustomed to the dungeons, in a way he'd never been comfortable at Grimmauld Place. He realized as well that, now that he allowed himself, Remus' nearness once again afforded reassurance, a familiarity Harry'd sorely missed. It was comfortable drifting though those empty corridors at Remus' elbow, and Harry thought it might not be such a tragedy should they become lost again. Secretly, Harry almost hoped for it. Besides, he'd not quite forgotten their destination, and was less than eager to reach it.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long before the two encountered the first of the windows announcing that they had, in fact, officially left the dungeons. The bright mid-morning light that streamed through them instilled something in Harry akin to disappointment, despite it's cheery promise of a temperate day. As though prompted by it, Remus finally dared to speak. Though what he had to say was certainly not something Harry wanted to hear.

"Understand, Harry," he began hesitantly. "We don't want to rush you." Harry swallowed a grumble. Why did Remus have to go and spoil such a nice moment? "However, Dumbledore and I think it best if you began your studies again straight away." Harry didn't respond so Remus offered a stumbling explanation. "Not the more strenuous subjects, mind you. Transfiguration and Occlumency can wait a bit. Well, actually you really should consider continuing Occlumency as soon as possible. But the others lessons, such as Hagrid's and…my own. Especially my own…" Remus paused, apparently trying to will away his slight blush. "…should be continued immediately."

"Yeah. All right, " Harry mumbled finally, eyes fixed irritatedly on the path before him. He could hear Remus give a kind of sigh from beside him, and he thought Remus might have lifted his hand as if he meant to lay it on Harry's shoulder. Harry practically held his breath in anticipation, but the hand never descended.

"It's only that, the threat hasn't passed, Harry," Remus said now. "If anything it's grown." Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. It wasn't as if he needed telling. "We want to be prepared for whatever we might encounter."

__

Whatever I _might encounter_, Harry corrected silently. That's what it boiled down to. And yet again, Harry found himself wondering why the hell he should bother. Now more than ever, after all he'd been through, he felt like saying bugger it all and accept Voldemort's offer and let the rest of the world fend for itself. There was no guarantee he would succeed against Voldemort. Not much likelihood even. If he couldn't save the whole world, he could at least save so many as the Weasleys and Grangers. It was all he cared about saving. But of course, he knew that wasn't entirely true, no matter how badly he wanted it to be. Harry felt himself becoming angry again. But instead putting his fist to something, Harry simply gave a sigh, one too weary for one of his limited years.

Now he did feel Remus' hand descend, gently, timidly. Without thinking, Harry brought his own to meet it, and heard Remus' slow intake of breath as he worked his fingers beneath the older man's. They stopped walking. Slowly, Harry turned his gaze to meet Remus', and his eyes were gently imploring, though even he didn't know for what. Remus swallowed and looked as though he didn't dare himself to speak, so Harry opened his own mouth to do so, when the moment was abruptly shattered by a student turning quickly out of a nearby doorway and almost running them over. Harry then realized they had already reached the Great Hall.

Remus gently but quickly untangled his fingers from Harry's, subtly flustered, and stepped aside to let the boy pass. He was young. Harry guessed him to be a second year. But Harry wasn't really concerned with the boy. He hadn't been ready for that contact to end, for their walk to be over. Harry deliberately ignored the massive open doors behind him. He didn't want to walk through them. Something shrank somewhere behind Harry's navel at the way Remus looked as if he wanted to disappear as he watched the boy slip from sight around a corner.

"Dumbledore thinks it best if I kept a very low profile while I'm here," Remus explained. "Considering the circumstances surrounding my resignation before. You understand."

Harry swallowed and slowly nodded, trying to catch Remus' eye again and force him to hold his gaze. But it didn't work.

"I'll be in my old quarters, should you need me for anything." Remus offered hurriedly, already backing away. Then he stopped and looked as though he wanted to say more, to do more, though finally only added, "Good luck today, Harry," and turned to go. Harry watched him until he was out of sight before taking a deep breath and turning toward the doors of the Great Hall, steeling his will to go in.


	19. Of Ladies Most Deject and Wretched

To those of you who have already read chapter 19, I'm sorry. But don't think I'm teasing you with another empty story update! I was working on chapter 20 and I realized...I wasn't writing chapter 20, I was extending chapter 19. I just wasn't happy with 19. It was too short. And the 'beginning of chapter 20' didn't feel like a beginning at all. So I smooshed them together. And after a couple of revisions, I present the revised and expanded chapter 19. Much thanks to Arcane Theorem and Kudatsuo-chan for the betas!

* * *

Harry could feel the massive doors of the Great Hall looming behind him, but not as keenly as he felt Remus' absence. It was tangible, like ghost left in his guardian's wake to haunt him. Harry's fingers still tingled with the memory of a touch he hadn't wanted to end. He mourned it with a sigh and turned to pass the threshold back into the living world.

The Hall was not full, but was still far too populated for Harry's liking. Students were scattered in sparse handfuls throughout, studying or else chatting idly as they nursed the remains of long cold breakfasts. Melancholy seemed to have settled on the gathering like a thick fog, and what little laughter could be heard was muted and subdued.

Harry supposed Snape was not the only professor doling out homework, as he spied several open books and bobbing quills. In fact one student at the end of Gryffindor table appeared to be surrounded by a veritable fortress of books. Harry groaned inwardly thinking of how much homework he would be making up on top of his special studies. But he may have a little while to catch up, as Harry also noticed no one seemed to be overly concerned with the time. It must be the weekend again. It took Harry a moment to absorb the fact that he'd lost an entire week. He had no idea how he would explain his disappearance.

But more than he dreaded questions about his sudden reappearance, Harry dreaded what other awkward confrontations were sure to come. Harry knew there were those fawning few who seemed to think that reading about him in the tabloids made them his friends. Few things irked him more about being The-Boy-Who-Lived than the familiar attitude of total strangers. Would they congratulate him like the portraits in Dumbledore's office had? Would they assume he'd driven the Dementors off single-handedly? Would they thank him for saving their lives? Harry didn't want the fickle gratitude of school children. He felt so far removed from them, so much older than his 16 years that it almost seemed comical to still be attending school at all. Harry watched them, stressing over homework, passing notes, chatting Quidditch. They seemed so naive and immature. Harry both envied and despised their innocence. And he cursed to himself that he always had to leap to their rescue, that it was expected of him now; even by himself. He knew they would never understand how reluctant his sense of duty was, or how it was making him hate them a little more each day for their vulnerability, their defenselessness.

Harry had only just come to recognize this hate. He feared it but could not banish it. Voldemort's words crept into his consciousness like poison through his veins. Maybe he was right. Maybe this was how it began for Tom Riddle as well, this subtle resentment. Harry wondered what his classmates would expect him to say to their 'thank yous', could imagine himself struggling not to tell them exactly what to do with their gratitude. He doubted they would understand his silence. They would give him pitying looks and offer condolences for his unfortunate best friend.

And Harry wouldn't be allowed to Crucio them.

Harry suddenly felt breakfast was a bad idea. No one had noticed him yet, so he turned back toward the doors. If he had to rejoin the student populace, he reasoned, it would be better to ease into it with people he knew. He's just go to the dorms and...

Harry froze in his step. And just what would he do in the dorms? Stare at Ron's empty bed? At the absence of his jumper draped sloppily on the back of his chair? At the complete lack of candy wrappers littering the floor? But if not the dorms, then where? There was no place at Hogwarts that did not remind Harry of Ron. He tried to leave the Hall anyway, had the impulse to run screaming for the Forbidden Forest. Maybe he'd find Buckbeak. Maybe he'd just fly away and leave all this behind. But Harry's legs would not oblige. While his mind soared free in daydream, Harry's feet seemed to plant roots; until something struck him roughly from behind and caused him to stumble forward. Reawakened, Harry's limbs turned him to face his assailant.

"Sorry, mate," apologized a boy about Harry's age. He addressed Harry from the floor where he stooped to retrieve his fallen books. The insignia on his robes revealed him to be in Ravenclaw. Harry had never met him. "Wasn't looking where I was..."

The sentence faded on the boy's lips, along with most of the blood in his face. As he straightened to face Harry, recognition washed the embarrassment from his expression.

"And so it begins," Harry thought wryly. But nothing happened. The boy simply stammered 'sorry' again and tripped over himself in his flight for the door, almost spilling his books a second time. Baffled, Harry watched him disappear around the corner. He had an urge to follow, but Harry realized he was no longer unnoticed. The group of students closest to him at the Hufflepuff table was staring at him as if he'd just risen from the dead, and he returned their stares impassively.

Harry noticed one of the young girls looked as though she had been crying, and after a moment he realized he recognized her as the first year who had almost been kissed on the train before Harry's Patronus could run down the Dementor who held her. Despite himself, Harry gave her a sympathetic nod. She blushed and turned away, but the others with her were not so shy. They fixed Harry with looks very uncharacteristic of their house, and one of the boys moved over to place an arm protectively around the girl's shoulders. Harry might have been offended, and made sure the boy knew it, had he not been so taken aback by their hostility. Growing more and more confused, Harry decided it was time to move on.

With the exception of one last glance back at the unfriendly Hufflepuffs, Harry was careful not to catch anyone else's eye. He concentrated only on finding a seat. He wasn't hungry anymore, but he'd be damned if he'd go through all this discomfort without doing what he'd come here to do.

Students were spaced just so down the length of Gryffindor table that it was impossible to find a place far enough away from anyone to discourage conversation. He glanced covetously at the far end where the book-barricaded student was occupying the seat he'd most like to claim. Harry cursed them under his breath before he spotted the shock of bushy brown hair peeking over the stop of the stacked tomes.

"Hermione?" he asked aloud without really meaning to. At the sound of her name, Hermione leaned back to peer around her enclosure. Her eyes were haunted and wary, but when they fell on Harry a timid smile crept halfway across her face.

"Harry," she said with a relieved sigh. "You're back."

Harry wasn't entirely inclined to agree with Hermione. He felt insubstantial, incomplete, as though a part of him never rose from Snape's bed that morning. A part of him, too, would forever remain on the Hogwart's Express, like a severed limb he'd been forced to abandon, the absence of which carried heavier than it's presence. Harry very much doubted he'd ever feel whole again. Looking at Hermione now, though, Harry supposed she hadn't fared much better than he had. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, accentuating her haunted expression, and her hair was bushier than usual, as though it had not been properly combed. Harry recalled her detachment after the Dementor attack.

Apparently she hadn't yet regained her grasp on the here and now. He imagined her struggling through her stupor each morning since to complete the most routine of tasks, without anyone to look after her, as Harry had wrestled with his own demons deep in the dungeons. He took a seat beside her and forced a smile to mask his concern, but a sense of shame stole over him that he had left her shepherd-less for so long, and his fierce protectiveness was rekindled.

But Harry still felt so ragged himself that a part of him (the poisoned part he was finding it harder and harder to suppress) didn't really want to be bothered by Hermione's pain. Harry had his own problems to be getting on with. How could he be expected to take on anyone else's? Conflicting with his desire to help a friend in obvious need was a new sort of frustration, unfamiliar in that it was accompanied by resentment. It was not simply the frustration of being 'chosen', it was that on top of all that he was being denied the solitude he needed. He wanted time to wrap his mind around how he really felt, about what happened to Ron, about his relationship with Dumbledore, or Remus, or Snape. Nurtured by his newfound doubts, exaggerated by the bittersharp pain of his recent loss, it turned his concern into a confusing sort of anger.

Since when had Hermione ever been _fragile_? And why, in Merlin's name, did she have to show it now? Now, when Harry was so very tired. His reaction to her was so predictable; involuntary and not the least bit convenient. He simply didn't have the strength to support them both, but somehow he still felt responsible. And this sense of obligation made him resent the subtle desperation he saw in her eyes as she looked at him, betraying her need. But she didn't deserve these thoughts. It made him ashamed that he'd conceived them. He cursed his own reluctant but relentless need to be her bastion. He hated himself for being so unfair to her. He _hated_ feeling so cruel. And he hated her because of it.

Harry couldn't look at her anymore, didn't trust himself to speak. His ambivalence was threatening his still tenuous hold on his composure. The day hadn't even really started and already he felt spent, exhausted by the battle his thoughts were waging within him. If only they would stop battering around in his skull like a bird against the window pane.

If only he could find some peace! Why had he ever stopped taking the potion? He longed to be in Snape's bed right now. Stiff and plain though it was, at least it had offered some semblance of refuge. If he couldn't stop his brain from working, at least wouldn't have to be fighting it. He wouldn't have to be sitting here pretending to be okay, wouldn't have to see Hermione's expectant expression and not even be able to manage a simple 'Hello'. Why anyone thought Harry was ready to resume living was beyond him. One didn't have to be a master Legilmens to tell Harry was still very far from okay.

But just as Harry made up his mind to leave, a vague memory inserted itself between his warring emotions. It came to him so suddenly and clearly it completely smothered everything else on his mind. But even as it anchored him, it simultaneously shook him to his core. It was the memory of this same girl writhing in agony on a cold stone floor as Harry watched helplessly just beyond reach. It didn't matter that the memory had been false, the vision contrived. The echo of Hermione's screams flushed Harry's petty thoughts from his head like bats from a darkened cave, and Harry's selfish annoyance dissolved instantly into a desperate impulse to snatch Hermione up, to cling to her as though his demons had materialized suddenly to steal her away from him. He wanted to apologize in gesture for the unkind thoughts he hadn't voiced, felt the need to smooth the anxiety from her expression with a gentle word. He managed to restrain himself to simply taking up the hand she had left lying on the bench between them. Hermione seemed a bit startled by her mute friend's grasp but turned her hand in his to return it, blushing ever so slightly.

But still, he couldn't he speak. Even if he could manage to force words past the stone in his chest, how could he ever explain that she was marked for torture and death, deemed a weapon to be used by the Dark Lord against his most hated enemy? Of course, in the safety of Hogwart's, he knew the confession would be well received. She wouldn't even frown; only tell him he'd made the right decision and that she'd never fall into Voldemort's hands anyway. But what if she was wrong? If the unthinkable were to happen, as she drew her last breath beneath Voldemort's wand, would she really be able to forgive him if she knew he'd been given the opportunity to save her and had refused? How would he ever forgive himself?

Harry noticed that she was staring at him with patient inquiry, but was saved from having to explain his odd behavior by the plate that materialized in front of him. With some effort he disentangled his fingers from hers, though after one glance at the generous portion of scrambled eggs on his plate, he simply pushed it away.

"How are you then?" he finally managed, still struggling to breathe. Hermione didn't answer right away. Wariness crept back into her expression and she scanned the Hall before leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. Though, her response faltered when she noticed he was frowning at her bandaged forehead.

"Oh this!" she said raising a hand to the tape and gauze as though she had forgotten she still wore them. "Alright, I suppose. Just a scratch really. There was a shortage of skin seal potion and so many others who needed it more than I did. I decided to just let it heal on its own. Really, who cares about a little scar on their forehead?" she shrugged, and then gave a small gasp as she remembered who she was talking to. Her eyes flickered to Harry's forehead and she gave him a deeply apologetic look.

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. In fact he hadn't even thought of his own scar until she had looked pointedly at it.

Hermione's eyes moved anxiously around the Hall again, and not just to avoid Harry's own. He found himself wondering what she had been about to tell him before the conversation strayed to scars and turned to survey the room himself.

Harry wasn't pleased by what he saw. The heavy silence that had fallen on the Hufflepuff table when he arrived had now infected to the rest of the student body. All around people were whispering to one another. Harry wondered why they went to the trouble of lowering their voices when no one attempted to hide the fact that Harry was the topic of conversation. They didn't even have the decency to look ashamed; or bother to look away when Harry met their stares. He gave the room an annoyed, almost challenging scowl and was about to make a show of ignoring them to return his attention to Hermione when something captured his attention.

There was only one person in the Great Hall not staring at Harry. And to Harry's great surprise, that person was Draco Malfoy.

Those great, bulking, barely sentient shadows of his, Crabbe and Goyle, were nowhere to be seen. It made Malfoy appear somehow one-third his usual size. Or perhaps he seemed so diminished because he was presently slouching in his seat. _Slouching_. Harry had never known Malfoy to slouch; had never seen him adopt anything less than the haughty posture of assumed superiority. But Draco's pathetic appearance only made Harry more suspicious.

"What's that about, do you think?" he remarked to Hermione. She followed his line of sight and smirked, which was something Harry had never known her to do either.

"Mummy won't let him play with the other bigots," she said. The comment and Hermione's expression were so unlike his friend that it took him a moment to process what she'd said. The sudden change in her shocked Harry. Concerned alarm hit Harry in the pit of his stomach like a cold fist. It was one of those moments so unpleasantly unexpected that Harry couldn't quite make out how he felt about it before Hermione continued. "Karkaroff's been replaced," she explained, voice thick with derision. "Apparently by someone Death Eater approved. Half of Slytherin's been recruited to Durmstrang this year. And you can guess they won't just be studying History of Magic. Cobblesnot had better teach us something useful."

"Cobble_snot_?" Harry asked. Surely he had heard wrong. Hermione didn't insult teachers. He'd never known her to be anything other than unfailingly polite when it came to teachers, as though whatever flaws they might have were automatically forgiven by virtue of their title. She didn't even call _Snape_ names.

Hermione looked a little sheepish, but only a little. "That's what everyone calls her," she said, a little defensively. "She _is_ a little off, isn't she?" Harry couldn't argue with that. Hermione nodded to a shadowy corner. For the first time Harry noticed that the staff table was empty. Cobbleshot was apparently the Professor on duty, but had stationed herself in the darkest part of the room, watching her charges in that odd, almost maddeningly indifferent way of hers. Remembering the train ride to Hogwart's with the strange woman, Harry guessed he understood Hermione's venom, though he didn't think Hermione had been paying any attention to the woman at the time. Harry _had_ been paying attention, and the memory unnerved him. Though the memory didn't elicit quite as strong a reaction, as the response their new professor was drawing from Hermione right now. Their gazes had met from across the room, Hermione's radiating dislike, Cobbleshot's apathy. Neither yielded. Harry thought it was time to change the subject.

"So why isn't Draco at Durmstrang?" he asked, then kicked himself. Draco apparently was not the best subject to change Hermione's disturbing new mood.

"Narcissa refused," she explained. At least she had broken her staring match with Cobbleshot to answer. "The Malfoys divorced after Lucius went to Azkaban. It's all over school. Draco doesn't have many friends at the moment." The way she spat the word 'friends' made Harry wonder if there was more she wasn't telling him. But just at that moment Harry was distracted even from Hermione by the thought of Draco, friendless and alone. Easy pickings. Harry didn't fight the poison now as it whispered through his veins, the sweet tune of payback. Just wait until he told Ron...

Of course, _Ron_. The reality and totality of Ron's absence poured over Harry like a bucket of ice water, washing him numb. Harry would almost have thought a Dementor had inexplicably found its way into the Great Hall, except that the scene that played in his head now was not a memory. Though it was no less painful. No matter how desperately he willed the vision away, Harry couldn't help but imagine what his best friend would have said about the present situation.

_Not so tough now is he? _Harry had the impulse to cover his ears with his hands, but he knew it wouldn't block out the sound of Ron's voice in his head. _All by his ickle self. I'd like to see him pick a fight now. We could really stick it to him. What d'ya say, Harry? After lunch? Catch him in the Halls and have a little sport?_

_Ron! Don't you dare!_ It was Hermione. Like she was before, undamaged and straight-laced.

_He's a git! And he's got it coming. Don't tell me you've gone all soft. Going to start making buttons with S.P.M.W. on them? Society for the Preservation of Malfoy's Welfare?_

_It's 'Promotion' of Elvish Welfare. And no, I'm not. But you certainly don't need to go getting into trouble just because you can. There's enough going on without detention. _

_Come on, 'Mione. Just a little hex? You know he'd do the same to us. _

_Exactly. You'd just be stooping to his level. _

_...Eh. He isn't worth it. Still, if he crosses us..._

"Harry? Are you all right? You look pale," Hermione said anxiously, more like the Hermione he knew. She laid a hand on his arm, breaking the strange trance.

As Harry's disturbing fantasy faded to a painful echo, he realized he'd been staring at the empty seat beside of him. Harry had to take a moment to come to terms with the realization that it would always remain empty. For perhaps the first time, he began to comprehend what losing Ron really meant. There would be no more mischievous conspiracies, no playful argument, no Hermione trying to keep the boys in line. Ron was gone, and the enormity of the void he left threatened to crush Harry.

It was a long moment before Harry managed to wrestle his pain into something manageable, to be dealt with later, elsewhere. Harry could tell his odd behavior was making Hermione uncomfortable; but she didn't press him for an explanation, for which Harry was very grateful. When he was finally able to turn back to her, he noticed she had taken up a pair of scissors and was continuing with the project she'd been working on when Harry had arrived.

It had nothing to do with homework, contrary to what Harry had suspected based on her fortress of schoolbooks. Harry now realized she was simply trying to shield herself from unwanted attention. On the table were several brightly colored fliers with the smiling face of a house-elf that bore a striking resemblance to Dobby, and Harry had a sense of déjà vu.

"What's all this, then?" he asked, trying to infuse his voice with sincere interest.

"This? Oh, nothing really," she replied, but Harry could hear the enthusiasm in her voice. "Dumbledore has asked me to reinstate Spew."

At the mention of Dumbledore, Harry bristled involuntarily. He shrugged it off. He was too relieved by Hermione's lightened mood to entertain yet another inner conflict.

"_Spew_? I thought it was S.P.E.W.?" he teased gently. Hermione's cheeks colored.

"Yes. Well. It _is_," she admitted, flustered. "But just between the two of us, S.P.E.W. is such a mouthful, really. And when you say it often, well, _Spew_ is just more convenient. Though to be honest, I've been thinking of changing the name. I'm just not sure to what. It's been so long since I've worked on it. You see it was Dumbledore's idea; the campaign, obviously, not the name." Again, Harry reacted to Dumbledore's name, becoming more and more annoyed with himself. He willed Voldemort out of his head, though was painfully conscious of the fact that his scar was dormant. "He's started his own campaign, you know, with the Ministry. He says he's interested in passing some pro-elf legislation. Freedom for house elves, Harry! Can you imagine it?"

Actually, Harry could. And he could imagine, as well, Dumbledore's sudden interest in Elvish liberation. With Voldemort so actively recruiting non-humans, the Order would reap the two-fold benefit of adding them to their ranks and also of removing them as tools in the hands of the Death Eaters. What was it Hermione once told him? That one of the reasons for the Elves' enslavement was because wizards feared their considerable power? But Hermione seemed so enamored by the apparent altruism of Dumbledore's actions that Harry couldn't bring himself to point out their military aspect.

"Of course," she went on, "Freedom is too ambitious right now. Dumbledore just wants to secure them certain rights." _And butter them up_, Harry thought. "You see, he feels that if we gain enough support with the students, it's bound to have an influence on their parents." The more she spoke, the more quickly the words fell from her tongue, and she was attacking the paper with a sort of nervous energy that made Harry wonder if he should take the scissors away from her. "And so, my point being, I want it all to be taken _seriously_. So S.P.E.W. simply won't do at all. As, let's face it, most of the students here have just the sort of juvenile mentality that will see S.P.E.W. and think _spew_, just like Ron-"

She stopped abruptly. She didn't just stop just talking, she froze, and as Harry watched, the paper in her hand began to tremble ever so slightly. Tears filled her eyes, glistening on her lashes as if she willed them not to fall, as if in allowing them to spill she would pass the point of no return and lose her composure utterly. Harry wanted to reach out for her, but was afraid, in the way one hesitates to lift something valuable for fear of breaking it.

It was then that Harry recognized Hermione's campaign for what it was: a distraction. Dumbledore had given her something to cling to in Harry's absence. And so Harry's feelings of animosity toward the Headmaster softened somewhat. Anyone could see that the effort was destined for failure. It was hopeless. But then, so was Hermione.

Harry also recognized that it was a temporary solution, and now was Harry's cue to rise above his own pain and help Hermione through hers. It was, undoubtedly, why Harry taking breakfast in the Great Hall had been so encouraged.

"Hermione, I-," he began, but was cut short by the sensation of something soft striking his back and tumbling to the floor with a soft _'splut'_. Harry and Hermione both looked down to see the scattered remains of the scrambled eggs that had just been thrown at Harry. Hermione gasped. Harry sighed.

_You have got to be freaking kidding me,_ he thought_. _Were they in primary school? Seriously. Who throws eggs? Harry turned to face his attacker and caught the second helping in the nose. The joke had officially been taken too far.

Harry was on his feet before it hit the floor, wand in hand.

"Why can't you just leave us alone!" he demanded. He'd meant to shout it angrily, to roar, but it came out more as a weary keen. He was so _tired. _Harry turned to where Malfoy had been sitting, certain he was going to catch him red-handed. But Malfoy was gone.

Harry wasn't in the mood for games. His mind was still on Hermione. Whoever the offender was, they weren't just messing with Harry, they were depriving Hermione of the kindness Harry was trying to show her, and he needed to make up for lost time. This, more than anything else, really pissed Harry off. He'd find the offender, if he had to confront each and every person in the room. And he'd make them answer for it. But even as Harry began planning his systematic search, he realized it was quite unnecessary. The culprit seemed to be the Hufflepuff boy from earlier, standing in the aisle nearby, another lump of eggs held ready in his hand. No one else in the Great Hall stirred. It was as if the entire room held its breath. Harry knew a challenge when he saw one.

"What is your malfunction?" Harry demanded. "Do I even know you?"

"Prolly not," the boy replied. "But everyone sure knows you, don't they? What I don't know is where you were, or why you came back. But why don't you just do us all a favor and bugger back off? Can't you see _no one_ wants you here?" The next mushy projectile struck Harry in the chest. Harry had the impulse to punch the guy in his fat mouth. But he was considerably larger than Harry. Instead, Harry slowly lifted his wand.

"Harry..." Hermione said warily, rising to stand at his side.

"Get behind me, Hermione," he said, preparing to hex the boy into next Tuesday. He wasn't about to become an easy target for any dimwit with a bone to pick. He'd jinx this kid so badly no one would even think about messing with him again. You just don't throw food at someone who's just lost his or her best friend. Especially when that someone has faced Voldemort and his assorted minions and lived to tell the tale. But before Harry could decide how to 'improve' the boy's face, a cry came from the Hufflepuff table.

"Patrick, don't!" Within moments the shy first year girl from before was at the boy's side, gently tugging at his elbow. "Please," she added pleadingly, blushing crimson and apologizing to Harry with her eyes.

"Go and sit down, Ellie," the boy replied distractedly without looking at her. Harry could tell by the way he spoke to her that Patrick must be Ellie's older brother. Poor kid. She'd probably had the worst first day of school ever, and now she was about to see her brother seriously injured by the guy who had just saved her life. Though he hadn't yet drawn his wand, Harry could see Patrick's hand twitch at his side. It didn't make Harry hesitate, just feel a little bad about what he as about to do. Well, better that she learns early that life is funny like that. Harry had been there too. People he'd trusted all year turned around and tried to kill him. The monster dog he'd been afraid of for months turned out to be his Godfather. His best friend's family pet turned out to be the guy who caused his parent's death. Fate has a sick sense of humor.

"I'm sorry, Ellie. But you're going to want to step away from your brother," Harry suggested. Ellie's eyes widened, but instead of stepping away, she squeezed closer to Patrick.

"Don't you dare talk to her!" the boy threatened. "Ellie, I told you to sit down!"

Looking a little hurt by his tone, she finally fled back to the group of students she'd been sitting with earlier. They closed in around her like they thought Harry might come after her after he was done with Patrick. Again, the gesture angered Harry. What did these people think he was? A madman with a wand? A lose cannon? A ticking bomb? Well, they may have been right, but that didn't mean he was going to go picking on defenseless little girls.

"Everyone knows it. It's about time someone said it," Patrick said now, his full attention returned to Harry. "All these bad things that happen, it's all because of _you_." There was murmured assent throughout the Hall.

So this was what they really thought, was it? _Stupid children._ Didn't they know how many times Harry had saved their asses? If not for Harry, the basilisk might still be roaming free. Voldemort would have claimed the Philosopher's Stone years ago. At half a dozen times in a half a dozen ways, if Harry hadn't been around to slow him at every turn Voldemort might have already have regained his former power and influence, might have already delivered real pain and punishment on the Wizarding World. And then where would these ungrateful brats be? Not sitting in the nice safe hall muttering under their breath about a bad luck charm by the name of Harry Potter, that's for certain. The fact that most people weren't allowed to know all those helpful details didn't placate Harry in the least. It didn't change the fact that it was true. In an indirect way Harry had risked his life for each and every person in this room several times over. And _this_ was the thanks he got? It turned his stomach. Worse, it pissed him off.

Hermione laid a warning hand on Harry's arm, looking frightened. It occurred to him that once upon a time she would have jumped to his defense, told the other boy what a great idiot he was being. But something was different now, like something inside her had been irreparably broken. They were both damaged. But before he could react to her, the boy concluded his speech.

"You-Know-Who is after Harry Potter. As long as _you're_ around we're all in danger! And if you won't go willingly," the boy reached for his wand. "Then I guess someone had better make you."

_Finally! _Harry thought. He wasn't going anywhere. Though only half an hour ago Harry had daydreamed of escaping via Hippogriff, now Harry's spite made Hogwart's the most appealing place on the planet. It was quite beside the fact that he had nowhere else to go. He didn't owe anyone here any favours.

Harry's scar began to tingle. But instead of frightening him into backing down, as it should have, Harry welcomed its destructive promise. Let it tingle. Harry would show 'Patrick' exactly what he was capable of. And if anyone besides had a problem with that, Harry would take them on, too. Hell, he'd take out the whole damned Hall! In fact, Harry actually smiled in anticipation.

"You laughing at me, boy?" Patrick asked, sounding tough.

_Boy?_ Harry actually did laugh. A manic titter erupted from his mouth. Rather than finding offense, it seemed to make the other boy uneasy. Harry imagined that by that afternoon everyone in school would have heard that Harry Potter was officially off his head. He really didn't care. All he awaited was the boy's next move.

Before it could be made, however, Harry's view was suddenly obscured by an expanse of familiar black fabric. Harry actually growled in frustration.

"What's all this, then?" Snape asked lazily, as if he didn't really care to know. He was standing in front of Harry with his back to him. Hermione took the opportunity to gently force Harry to lower his wand. Reluctantly, he obliged. And having done so, the prickling in Harry's scar subsided. But though he no longer craved the level of violence he was so recently envisioning, Harry still felt robbed. At least Snape was here now, strange how that fact was comforting. But for once, Snape would be chastising someone else.

Snape turned now to look down his nose at Harry. Though, with a small measure of satisfaction, Harry noted he didn't have to look far. Thanks to a recent growth spurt, Harry was almost eye level with the Potions Master.

"Causing trouble yet again, Potter?" Snape said with a withering sigh.

"_Me_?" Harry shouted disbelievingly. He was so incredulous that for a moment he had trouble forming words. "B-but it was _him_ who was throwing the eggs!"

"I would watch my tone if I were you, Mr. Potter," Snape said dangerously. "Unless you'd like to find yourself in even more trouble than you are presently in. As I'm sure you are well aware, dueling is strictly prohibited in the Great Hall. Now, kindly put away your wand and follow me."

Harry, however, made no move to do so. The unfairness of it made Harry's eyes sting with the threat of angry tears.

"What? Would you like to stay and finish your breakfast? I'd have thought you'd had your fill of eggs," Snape said with a sneer, earning quite a few quiet snickers from the surrounding students. Harry trembled with humiliation and suppressed anger. Thankful, his scar didn't respond to Snape's taunt. Without waiting for further response from Harry, Snape turned and left the Great Hall. After an awkward moment, without even a parting glance to Hermione, Harry forced himself to follow, staring fixedly at the floor in front of him. He was unwilling to see the smug satisfaction on 'Patrick's' face, and did not entirely trust himself not to throw a punch or two as he passed by.

Snape swept soundlessly through the hallways with Harry in tow. Harry paid no attention to the direction in which they traversed. He was still angry. And he still thought it was completely unfair that he was the only one being punished. But now that his scar had quieted, Harry no longer wanted to lay waste to the student body. Which, looking back, Harry realized was absolutely insane. Harry's anger ebbed to be suitably replaced by fear.

If Snape hadn't shown up, Harry would seriously have hurt that misguided boy, whose only real crime appeared to be an overdeveloped sense of protectiveness. Harry also might have hurt others. Ellie and Hermione included. This thought horrified Harry, and he replayed the events in his mind, trying to pinpoint when things had turned so horribly wrong.

As vehemently as Harry had rejected Voldemort's predictions, they seemed to be coming true far sooner than Harry could ever have imagined. How long had he even been awake now? A few measly hours?

Maybe Patrick was right. Harry didn't belong there. But where would he go? At this rate he was going to end up in St. Mungo's. That thought almost made Harry trip over his own feet. He shuddered.

Was that really a possibility? He imagined himself rooming with Lockhart and might have laughed, except that it suddenly seemed a real possibility. Harry didn't want to be put away. But they'd almost have to. Taking his wand wouldn't be enough. The power that had demolished Dumbledore's office hadn't streamed through his wand. It had pour from his scar.

That damned scar! Just remembering the tinkle of glass, the rip of canvas, blood sweat...it made his scar itch. Not stir like it had in the Hall, just a phantom sensation brought on by the memory. Harry rubbed at it absently as he walked, and real panic began to rise in him.

He couldn't be packed off! He had a prophecy to fulfill. Not that he relished the idea, but it was _his_ prophecy. If he didn't stop Voldemort, who would? He was so lost in these thoughts that he almost collided with Snape when he stopped abruptly in front of a doorway. Harry realized he was still rubbing his head and hastily lowered his hand. He didn't want anyone, least of all Snape, to know how close he'd come to losing control.

"What exactly did you think you were doing?" Snape demanded. Harry noticed his voice was more stern and exasperated than truly angry. It caught him off guard and he didn't answer right away. He toed the ground sullenly for a moment before muttering, rather lamely, "He started it."

Snape quite looked as though Harry's answer had made him physically ill. "Be that as it may," he replied wearily, "there was little need for you to finish it. _Must_ you rise to every goad? Is it really so difficult to just do nothing?" For the dozenth time that day, Harry's conversation with Voldemort drifted to the forefront of his thoughts. "Grow _up_, Harry," Snape said, pulling him abruptly back to the present. Wait. Did Snape really just call him by his first name?

"I think you are well aware that your..._abilities_ are more advanced than many of your classmates. It is unseemly to pick a fight with those weaker than yourself." Beneath Harry's irritation at the hypocrisy of Snape's comments, he wondered if there wasn't, in fact, something resembling a compliment in it. Or close enough to, considering it came from Snape. Harry had always rather thought that Snape considered him inept in all things.

"He was throwing food at me. What did you expect me to do? Get up and walk off?"

Snape quite suddenly raised his fist and for a moment Harry thought the Professor was actually about to hit him. But instead, Snape rapped smartly on the door in front of them. Only then did Harry recognize that they were at McGonagall's office.

"Actually," Snape began in answer to Harry's question, "that is exactly what I expect. And apparently that was what Prof. Cobbleshot expected as well, or else I would imagine she would not have left her post to report the incident to me. Fortunately, I am somewhat more familiar with your behavior than she is and was able to prevent what I am sure would have been a spectacular display of testosterone and stupidity. I have advised our new Professor not to give you so much credit in future, especially should it relate to matters of common sense."

Somehow, Harry was not insulted by that comment. It could have been that he was inured to Snape's insults. But mostly, Harry was thinking, in hindsight, how odd it had been that the confrontation had been allowed to escalate so far without a teacher's intervention. Harry wondered why Cobbleshot left. And why, if she were going to report something to someone, she would have picked Snape. Harry was actually, and rather unwisely, about to pose this question to Snape when the door to McGonagall's office opened.

"Minerva," Snape greeted her, though he was still looking at Harry as if somehow disappointed that he hadn't responded. "It seems that Mr. Potter has finally deigned to grace us with his presence. I'll leave him in your hands." Then to Harry's surprise, Snape turned to go.

"What? That's it, then?" Harry asked, and was slightly startled to realize that he had done so aloud.

"Were you looking forward to detention?" Snape inquired over his shoulder.

"No."

"No, what?"

"No, Sir," Harry added quickly, too stymied to be impudent.

"Very well, then," Snape said, laying the matter to rest and continued on his way.

"_Detention?_" McGonagall asked, having watched the exchange in mild perplexity. Harry looked sheepish but did not volunteer to explain. McGonagall seemed to think it better not to inquire any further. "Well, you'd best come in, Potter," she said, stepping aside to allow Harry to do so. "I have your class schedule. And your..._other_ schedule. Besides," she added more gently, "we have a few things to discuss."

Harry hesitated. Things that made McGonagall speak gently were never good. Though, at least he didn't have detention to worry about. Watching Snape's still-retreating back, Harry puzzled over the emotion he was feeling. He guessed it might have been gratitude but was unsure, so unaccustomed as he was to feeling it in combination with Severus Snape.


	20. Sorry Help?

So sorry for the delay. My bata fell through. Would welcome any other beta offers.


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